


you can always be found

by CostcoOfYourDreams



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Sis!Aranea, Body Dysphoria, Cor's colorful language, Dehumanization, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Experimentation, Family of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Implants, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Physical Abuse, Kinda, MT!Prompto, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Prompto, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Spoilers for Chapter 13, Touch-Starved, Vomiting, aka Prompto's whole deal, monica was not planned to be here but here she is, papa!Cor, pre-game, spoilers for episode prompto, these kids deserve a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-06-17 11:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 75,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15460809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CostcoOfYourDreams/pseuds/CostcoOfYourDreams
Summary: After seven years of conditioning, Magitek unit 05953234, model NH-01987, is found.The rest, as they say, is history.





	1. lost

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a project that has been in the works for...not that long actually, haha. it'll take me at least a month for the next chapter depending on length and my schedule, and school starts next month so my time to write will be reduced, to say the least. 
> 
> credit where credit is due, this story is inspired by almost every mt!prompto fic on this site, especially [Poor Wayfaring Stranger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11725950) and [Running Behind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10869282).
> 
> special thanks to my wonderful friend and beta, [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori/pseuds/phori), without whom this fic wouldn't have been possible. if you like kid icarus or good writing in general, please check her out.

Magitek unit NH-01987 wakes to the feel of warm hands on bare skin. The unit takes a moment to observe its surroundings; it is being carried by what appears to be its new commander through the desert tundra of Niflheim. It wonders why the Commander would bother to carry it, as it would be much more efficient to simply activate NH-01987 rather than manually transport it. It is a waste of energy, but it is not NH-01987’s place to question the Commander’s decisions. NH-01987 wonders where the Commander is taking it. Was it so important that it had to forgo equipping its Magitek armor? The armor would have staved off the worst of the bitter cold. Instead, all it has to protect itself is the simple black undersuit worn during rest periods.

The Commander and NH-01987 approach a nearby lake, and realization hits the unit. It is being decommissioned. It remembers seeing the bright red sticker on its storage unit, but it remembers nothing afterwards. NH-01987 panics; it tries to struggle in the Commander’s grasp but it is too weak and cold to escape its inevitable fate. It always thought decommissioning happened the way everything else did: by injections, not by throwing the offending unit into one of the frozen lakes that decorate the landscape. That is part of the reason it is being terminated. It is forgetful, clumsy, and has _thoughts_ , the most egregious error of all.

It is also scared.

It cannot hold in its emotions, unlike the other units, and it halts in its struggles and begins to cry--a familiar action, one long since perfected in storage pods long after training had concluded--in the arms of the Commander. Its breathing fluctuates as well, no longer effortless. There is nothing left the Commander can do--no more threats of decommissioning, now that it is happening--so NH-01987 allows its defects to show, if only for a moment.

The gasping is undignified and unbefitting of a proper MT unit. The gasps NH-01987 makes are weak and pitiful. It knows it is not helping its case but it can’t stop. Tears leak out of its eyes and nose. The salty water serves no purpose other than to further the misery of NH-01987, as the cold bites everywhere the tears fell.

“Shit, kid,” the Commander says, the words as biting as the cold. NH-01987 does not understand the term ‘kid’, but it can guess that it is some form of reprimand for its display of emotion. This also scares the unit. It has never failed so badly that it was called ‘kid’ before. Perhaps this was a test--one last chance before decommissioning. NH-01987 knows it failed. The Commander looks down at NH-01987 and then exclaims once more, “ _Shit!_ ”

NH-01987 knows what ‘shit’ means, has heard it many times in reference to its physical ability. It does not understand why the Commander feels the need to bring that up now--NH-01987 knows exactly why it is being terminated--but the word leaves the unit’s heart beating frantically. The Commander leans forward and places the unit on the ground, but before releasing NH-10987’s arm he asks, “You won’t run away if I let go, will you?”

NH-01987 takes the words as the threat they are and shakes its head slowly, its heartbeat echoing loudly in its head. It knows if it runs its end will only be more painful. NH-01987 keeps the noises from becoming anything other than hitched breaths, and, seemingly pleased, the Commander slowly releases NH-01987’s wrist, as though making certain it won’t run. Satisfied with NH-01987’s compliance, he fully releases the unit’s wrist and moves to undress. NH-01987 wonders why, as the bitter cold is currently biting into its extremities and ports. Tears still fall down its face. The Commander finishes, having taken his jacket off, and offers it to NH-01987. NH-01987 makes no move to grab it for fear of a reprimand for taking a superior officer’s possession.

“C’mon, kid,” NH-01987 notes the usage of the word ‘kid’ once more, “you have to be cold. Just, _here_ \--.” The Commander cuts himself off and drapes the coat across NH-01987’s shoulders. It takes away the worst of the stinging of its newly installed ports. The unit questions why the Commander would willingly give away some of his own comfort for an MT unit. It’s not like it’s human. More than that, it’s going to be decommissioned anyways.

The Commander picks up NH-01987 and it does not struggle in his grasp. The concept of futility is one that is deeply ingrained in its system. Nevertheless, its heart continues to beat at a rate far above the average rate of an MT unit. Its heart beats so hard and so fast that it is causing the unit physical pain, like physical correction is occurring with every beat.

The Commander gives no response other than to clutch the unit tighter to his chest. Perhaps he believes NH-01987 will flee? No, it has already proven itself in that regard. NH-01987 will never understand humans, whether they be civilians or Commanders.

“We’re almost there, kid,” the Commander mutters. NH-01987 bites its lip to keep the noise that threatens to bubble out of it locked in his chest. It ultimately fails, and an ugly sound falls from its lips. It has made this sound before: every time the black liquid was injected, the installation of its ports, any and all severe punishment. It is the sound of weakness, of failure.

It is a sound that NH-01987 is prone to making.

No matter how hard it tries, the noises won’t stop, so it gives into them. Tears flow freely and its breathing grows erratic and uncontrolled, so much so that it hardly feels like it is breathing at all. Another defect. It continues this way for an undetermined period of time. The Commander stops, but NH-01987 does not cease its shuddering gasps.

‘ _I wonder if it hurts_ ,’ is all NH-01987 allows itself to think. It closes its eyes. The Commander shifts his grip on the unit and then--

The Commander sits down, NH-01987 still held firmly in his grasp. NH-01987 finds the Commander sitting down on a transportation vehicle of some sort. The lake sits undisturbed beside them.

“Alright, kid,” the Commander says, shifting his grip on NH-01987, “I’m gonna need you to work with me for this part, okay?”

NH-01987 nods, silent. Even though the Commander used the word ‘kid’ again, his words do not appear to be a reprimand. The sense of being corrected has faded, and the noises it could not keep repressed have stopped. Despite this, tears still flow down its face, persistent in their goal to further NH-01987’s discomfort.

“Alright, so I’m gonna need you to hold onto me like this--no, put your arms around my torso. There you go,” the Commander instructs. “You got a name, kid?”

Name? Names are for humans. The Commander must mean its production number. “05953234, sir.”

The Commander frowns, but does not punish NH-01987 for its unsatisfactory answer. “Shoulda known, damn Nifs. Six, you’re just… You shouldn’t…” The Commander trails off, distressed.

“Permission to ask a question, sir?”

“Permission granted.”

“Am I not being taken to be decommissioned?” The words coming out are like sharp barbs digging themselves into NH-01987’s throat. It doesn’t want to say them, but it must.

“Decommi-- oh, fuck, no! Absolutely not, you are not being decommissioned!” NH-01987 flinches back at the Commander’s outburst, but keeps its arms firmly locked around his torso.

“Permission to ask a question, sir?”

“ _Shiva’s frosted tits_ , you have permission to ask as many questions as you damn well please.”

The unit starts a bit at this. It has never been given an unconditional amount of questions before. It always has so many. It is always getting into trouble for asking questions.

“If I am not being decommissioned, then why am I outside the facility? Magitek units are not allowed outside until their conditioning is complete.”

“You’re outside the facility because I took you out. No kid deserves to grow up in a shithole like that. Cattle, that’s what the lot of you were. Created just so you could die.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says slowly. “That is our purpose. We are created to serve the Empire.”

The Commander looks down at him, eyebrows pinched together and mouth angled downwards. “There’s more to life than servitude. You deserve more.”

NH-01987 does not know how to respond, so it remains silent. The Commander starts the vehicle, and it hums beneath them in a constant vibration. NH-01987 finds the hum invigorating, much like the brief hours of sleep it sometimes gets after long workout sessions. It looks out on the snowy wilderness; the entirety of the landscape seems dead. There is no sound or movement other than the Commander’s vehicle and its whirring. Neither man nor machine says a word as they traverse the tundra. Liquid has stopped expelling itself from NH-01987’s body, which has increased its face’s temperature greatly as a result. It is almost warm, encompassed as it is in the Commander’s clothes.

What NH-01987 approximates to be half of an hour passes, and the Commander stops. The vibration of the vehicle halts, as does the constant hum.

“We’re here, kid,” the Commander says. Again, despite calling NH-01987 ‘kid’, he does not seem angry.

NH-01987 swallows, arms still held firmly around his torso. “What does kid mean, sir?” it asks quietly. “I do not understand the meaning of the reprimand.”

The Commander sighs and looks down at NH-01987, mouth slanted and eyebrows pressed together. “It’s not a reprimand, it’s...it’s what we call people like you. It’s what you are. And please, don’t call me sir. My name is Cor.”

NH-01987 licks its lips, but does not repeat the action. Its lip burns where saliva was left. “I am a Magitek unit, not a ‘kid’, si--Cor.”

The contortions of the Commander’s face become even more pronounced. He takes his hand off the steering apparatus--two grips attached to two horizontal poles--and moves to strike the unit on the head. On reflex, NH-01987 flinches but the pain never comes. The Commander, instead, has his hand resting softly on top of NH-01987’s head and rustling through its hair. NH-01987 involuntarily leans into the touch before reminding itself of its position and pulling away. The Commander removes his hand from its head after a short pause.

NH-01987 turns around without moving its arms and observes the location they find themselves at. Their destination appears to be a concrete building, reminiscent of those found at the training facility. It is rectangular, the top lined by bright orange lights that circle the building in horizontal strips. At the front of the building, above two brightly illuminated glass doors, the numbers ‘11/7’ are displayed in green lights. The inside, from what NH-01987 can see, is decorated with brightly colored bags. NH-01987 cannot see past the front row, as its vision has always been impaired. The rest of the interior is nothing but bright blobs of color.

“Hey kid, you can let go now,” the Commander says, his voice tinged with an indiscernible emotion. Most emotions fall under that category--that is to say, indiscernible. Magitek units are much easier to understand and work with.

NH-01987 removes its arms from around the Commander’s waist and turns around fully. The building is an odd spot of color in the middle of the colorless wasteland. There is a street leading to the building that continues to some unknown destination away from the building. There is a single vehicle--a car, NH-01987 thinks, as it is one of the few modes of transportation other than transport units that it is familiar with--stopped just outside the entrance to the store. In comparison, the Commander’s vehicle is parked to the left, off of the pavement and on densely packed snow.

The Commander shifts and stands up before stretching his arms. NH-01987 remains in position, awaiting its next order. The Commander notices its lack of movement and orders, “C’mon kid, let’s go inside.” NH-01987 complies at once, standing and moving behind the Commander. He glances back once at it before lifting his shoulders once and proceeding into the building, NH-01987 following dutifully behind.

The inside of the building is blindingly bright. NH-01987 blinks a few times to adjust its eyes. Once they do adjust, it can see the rest of the interior that was previously obscured. There is color everywhere; what previously appeared to be blobs of color are shelves lines with dozens of assorted bags, each proclaiming a title and a tagline. One reads, ‘ _Noritos! Macho Cheese_.’ NH-01987 does not know what ‘macho’ or ‘cheese’ means, let alone ‘Noritos.’ It grabs the Commander’s outerwear and holds it firmly in its grip. The interior of the building is entirely too bright, too colorful. NH-01987 is unable to move, to do anything other than breathe and stare, wide-eyed, at the overwhelming colors. It clutches at the garment draped loosely over its shoulders. It closes its eyes for a brief second, holding the outerwear even closer, then opens its eyes, prepared to face the colors once more.

The Commander turns around from a few steps ahead of NH-01987. NH-01987 quickly rectifies its error, its heart malfunctioning and skipping a beat. It falls into line behind the Commander, matching his quick pace. The Commander proceeds to the opposite end of the brightly lit building, where a woman is standing in front of glass walls that block any outsiders off from the colorful cans within. One such can is neon green with three black claw marks, and the word ‘ _Daemon_ ’ written in bold letters on the front.

The woman--silver hair, slightly shorter than average--turns and faces the Commander.

“Took you long enough.”

“Sorry,” the Commander says. NH-01987 questions why the Commander apologizes--one of his station has no need for apologies. “There was a small complication, but everything was taken care of.”

The woman nods, then turns and faces the glass wall once more. “I see you found the kid. You talked to him at all yet?”

“A bit,” the Commander says. “It’s…”

“Fucked up? Yeah. I worked for them, I should know.”

“But you don’t anymore.” NH-01987 finds itself completely lost.

“Nah, even I got limits. Figure I’ll do some bounty hunting around here, work off my sins.”

“You know I could give you complete immunity if you want to come to Lucis, right? What you’ve done here today needs to be repaid.”

The woman snorts and grabs hold of the handle sticking out from the glass wall. She pulls, revealing the wall to not be a wall at all, but a door, and grabs the can NH-01987 was examining earlier.

“If you want to repay me, buy me this,” she commands, pushing the can into the Commander’s chest. NH-01987 stiffens momentarily at her aggressive gesture, but seeing the Commander’s lack of response gives it pause. She does not appear to be an immediate threat, so it relaxes once more. The woman glances down at it and says, “Actually, there is something you can do for me. Besides the drink, that is.”

“What is it?” the Commander questions.

“Give me your number.”

“I can’t do that. It’s a breach of security,” the Commander says after a brief pause.

“Fine then, let me talk to the kid. And get him some damn clothes.” The Commander steps back at the woman’s request, allowing her direct access to NH-01987. It glances up at him, but the Commander’s face is completely neutral.

The woman kneels in front of the unit. “Listen here, kid. This man,” she says, pointing at the Commander, “isn’t your commander. You don’t have a commander anymore. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen to him though.” NH-01987’s eyebrows push themselves together and it looks at the Commander for confirmation. He nods. NH-01987 licks its lips and turns back to the woman. It can’t change its perception of the Commander--man?--now, for fear of the scenario ending up being a simulation. NH-01987 is determined to pass, to prove itself. It can not afford not to.

“And you--what’s your production number and model, kid?”

“My production number is 05953234 and my model is NH-01987.” This is an easy question, easier than thinking about what the Commander is and where the unit might be if the situation ends up not being a test.

“Which are you used to referring yourself as, and why?”

“Model number, ma’am. There is no need to differentiate between units of the same model if they are not undergoing tests or scheduled for deactivation.” ‘ _Which it was_ ,’ it tries not to think. The woman looks back up at the man, whose eyes are wide and mouth a thin line.

“ _Fuck_ ,” the Commander says.

“Fuck indeed,” the woman responds, rising from her position on the ground. “That’s what you’re dealing with,” she says and turns back to the unit, “When were you commissioned?”

“Seven years ago.”

The woman nods. “Seven years of conditioning to think like _that_. You know what you’re in for?”

The Commander is quiet as he responds, “No.”

The woman lets loose a sound like a bark. “I don’t think anyone is. You got a pen and paper? Wait, nevermind, I think I have one somewhere in here…” The woman turns and reaches into the cloth sack secured by a rope to her shoulders. She removes one strap, allowing her easier access, then rummages around inside. She retrieves the aforementioned pen and paper, jotting something down on a small, square notepad and then handing it to the Commander.

He glances down at it briefly, then looks back up at her. “What is this?”

“My number. I’m curious to see how he turns out, so give him my number when he gets older, yeah? Can you do that, Mr. Immortal?”

The Commander’s lips form a thin line. “I’ll make sure it happens.”

“Good. Now, hand ‘em over.” The Commander searches his pants pockets for a few seconds before retrieving a set of keys. NH-01987 recognizes them as belonging to the vehicle they used to transport themselves here. The Commander hands them over to the woman, who tosses a similar pair of keys in exchange.

“Word of advice?” she says, “Get him some sunglasses. Even Nifs won’t take kindly to eyes like his.” The Commander nods. “Well, hopefully we never run into each other again, Mr. Immortal.”

The Commander snorts. “Good luck, Aranea.”

The woman walks past the Commander briskly, snatching the can from his grip. She holds it up in the air and points at the Commander. “This is on him.” She’s looking at a human situated behind a counter, one NH-01987 had missed in its previous reconnaissance of the building due to the distraction the bright colors presented. The young human just nods, flipping a page of what NH-01987 assumes to be their instruction manual. It is a much thinner manual than NH-01987 is familiar with.

The door opens with a soft chime and the woman is gone. Now it is just NH-01987 and the assumed Commander. NH-01987 looks up at its superior, awaiting orders.

“C’mon, kid,” the Commander says, noticing the unit’s position. “Let’s get some food in you. And some clothes. Damn, we’re lucky that this is more of a general store.”

NH-01987 nods, following the Commander down an aisle of bright bags and boxes. He stops at the end, where some black garments with the words, ‘ _Welcome to Niflheim!_ ’ written in a bright orange. He grabs one with long sleeves and holds it against NH-01987’s chest.

“No, too big,” he mutters, grabbing an identical one and repeating the process. “That’ll have to do for now. I’ll get you some better once we get to Leide.”

NH-01987 knows that Leide is outside the Empire. It is not authorized to leave the Empire.

It tells the Commander as much, “Sir, I am not authorized to leave the Empire yet. I have not completed my training.”

The Commander looks up from the clothing, “I know. We’re leaving anyways. And what did I say about calling me sir?”

“Sorry, si--Cor.”

The Commander nods, “Much better.” He turns back towards the rack of garments. NH-01987 looks too, unsure what it is it is looking for. A small yellow shape catches its attention, and it gently pulls the item free. It is a plush animal, resembling a bird of some kind. The yellow, despite having the same bright coloring as every other item in the building, is not overwhelming. It, much like the texture of the bird, is pleasant. NH-01987 thinks that if it holds the bird too hard, it will break.

The Commander notices NH-01987’s interest in the bird, who scrambles to replace it. Already it is giving its apologies.

“I’m so sorry, sir--Cor, I just--my apologies it won’t happen again, I can be better, I promise,” NH-01987 continues its rambling apologies until the Commander interrupts it.

“You don’t--oh fuck--you don’t need to give me an apology. Did you like it? The chocobo plush, I mean.”

NH-01987 does not understand what ‘like’ means, unless used when comparing two objects. Nevertheless, it answers, “It was...like fresh snow.” NH-01987 does not know how to vocalize the the texture of the bird (chocobo?).

“Here, hand it over.” NH-01987 complies, retrieving the chick and presenting it to its Commander. The Commander takes the bird gently from its hands. He turns it over for a brief moment, then nods. “I can get this for you,” he states. “Got enough money for this and some food. Speaking of, what do you want to eat?”

NH-01987 is so very, very confused. “Eat?” it asks quietly, uncertain whether the unlimited questions still apply.

“Uh, you know. What do you want for, uh, sustenance?”

Oh. Now NH-01987 comprehends what it is the Commander is offering, though it has no preference in the nutrients it receives. It pulls the flap up on its right bicep, giving the Commander access to its port. The Commander makes no move to supply NH-01987 with the offered nutrients, instead staring intently at NH-01987’s port.

“What…” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “what is that?”

NH-01987 bites down on its lip in habit, then says, “My nutrient port, s--Cor.”

“How does… what does it do?”

“During the rest hours in between training session, units are given nutrient tubes to insert into our ports to obtain the necessary sustenance to work at optimal capacity.”

“And you don’t, uh, just--oh fuck--you don’t just receive the ‘necessary sustenance’ by putting solid food, or soup, or _something_ in your mouth and--and swallowing?”

“Food is for humans,” NH-01987 explains. A part of it questions if the Commander really is a Commander; the woman’s words from earlier play back in its head. The Commander’s lack of information regarding standard Magitek unit ports is lending credence to the theory. Despite the possibility of the Commander lacking the authorization necessary to command a Magitek unit, NH-01987 will continue to obey.

“Oh shit, how am I supposed to provide for a kid who doesn’t know how to eat. _Fuck_ , why couldn’t they have sent Dustin on this mission,” the Commander mutters to himself. “Alright, fine. No solids, liquids, okay, do they have any Cup Noodles?”

The Commander moves, scouring the store for what NH-01987 assumes to be ‘cup noodles.’ The Commander eventually stops at a small counter to the right of the human behind the desk after several cursory glances down the aisles. He lets out an, “ _Aha!_ ” NH-01987 presumes the noise to be some sort of victory chant. He scoops four white cylinders into his arms, then turns around and asks, “Can you carry some of this? I still need to find you some glasses.” NH-01987 nods. Its strength is subpar, but it should be able to reduce the Commander’s load. It wonders why he didn’t command it to carry the items before.

“Here,” the Commander says, giving the NH-01987 the yellow bird and two white cylinders to hold. They are lighter than NH-01987 expected them to be.

“Alright, somewhere here in the back,” the Commander mutters, already moving towards another end of the store. NH-01987 follows diligently. The Commander stops at a small plastic tower. Several glass objects with plastic frames that NH-01987 has seen other Commanders wear are displayed. Some of the glass is clear, while others are slightly tinted. NH-01987 thinks they are called glasses. The Commander grabs one of the tinted glasses and places it gently on NH-01987’s face. Its ears and nose hold the object in place for a few moments, but they slide down its nose once more. The Commander sighs, leaning down and pushing the glasses back up.

“These are the smallest frames they have,” he says, expecting NH-01987 to understand. It does not. “Well, we’ll have to make do. Make sure you don’t let those show your eyes.” An order. That is something it does understand. NH-01987 nods.

“Alright, that should be everything we need. Cup noodles, chocobo, glasses...Shit, I should probably grab some water.” Once more the Commander moves, and NH-01987 follows without fail. He grabs two large bottles and glances down at NH-01987. “You, uh, know how to drink?”

“Yes, s--Cor.”

“Oh thank the Six. I thought I was gonna have to teach you how to swallow.” NH-01987 remains quiet, rearranging the glasses that had started to slip down its face with its forearm. The Commander is moving again, this time towards the human behind the counter, who has stopped reading their manual. Upon closer inspection, NH-01987 discerns the person’s gender to be female.

The woman is staring at the Commander with wide eyes. “Okay, like, I know it’s none of my business, but _what the fuck_ is up with your robot son? What the actual fuck?”

The Commander sighs, setting the objects in his hands down on the counter. “Believe me, I know.”

“Okay, but like, do you? Do you _really_?” The Commander looks down at NH-01987, ignoring the woman’s comment.

“Here kid, let me put those up there.” The Commander looks at NH-01987’s eyes, his face pinched and eyebrows drawn.

"Uh, I can’t take the glasses off the kid’s face. How should I…?”

“Fuck, it’s one in the morning and you and robo-boy have successfully freaked the fuck out of me. I don’t care.” The Commander reaches into his pants pocket, retrieving two rectangular pieces of paper.

“Is uh, four-hundred gil enough? For all this, plus the lady’s Daemon?”

“Yeah, whatever, it’s fine. Just, please. I want to forget this ever happened. I wish you were, like, a robber or something. That would have been easier to process.”

“Keep the change, and it’s probably for the best that you do that--I mean, forget this ever happened.”

“Holy fuck, are you threatening me?”

“What, no! It’s just, _argh_ , classified.” He spins around, grabbing all the assorted items, handing the ones NH-01987 was previously holding back to it, and approaching the exit. As it follows, NH-01987 looks back at the woman, who gasps as the glasses slip down once more. It dutifully pushes them back up. The Commander does not appear to notice its failure to follow through with its orders. Maybe it will not be punished for its misdemeanor this time.

“ _Oh gods_ ,” NH-01987 hears, “I’m not getting paid enough for this.” The Commander puts his arm on NH-01987’s back, pushing it gently out of the glass doors. He does not appear to be mad that it was not keeping pace. The Commander approaches the vehicle NH-01987 had previously observed outside of the building. He shuffles all of the items in his hands to one arm, then searches his pocket, extracting the keys NH-01987 had seen the silver-haired woman give to him. He pushes a button that results in a quiet click, and swings open one of the doors. He deposits his goods inside on a plush seat, then reaches down and extracts the two white cylinders NH-01987 was holding and puts them next to the ones he was holding. When he had reached down, NH-01987’s grip had involuntarily tightened on the bird in its hand, and loosened when the Commander allowed it to remain in the unit’s grip.

The Commander then proceeds to the other side of the car, gesturing with his hand for NH-01987 to follow. It complies, and by the time it is at the other side the Commander is opening another one of the side doors, this one at the front of the vehicle. He leans in and sets down the bottles of water in a rectangular compartment that separates what appear to be two seats.

“Alright, so, I’m gonna just…” the Commander trails off, leaning down and grabbing NH-01987 under the armpits. “Six, you’re light.”

The Commander lifts NH-01987 off of the ground and places it on the seat. He still does not retrieve the bird from its grasp. Instead, he reaches to NH-01987’s right and pulls down a restraint of some kind, clicking it into a small, plastic rectangle to NH-01987’s left. He puts his hand on NH-01987’s head, and this time it does not flinch. The Commander runs his hands gently across NH-01987’s short hair, pauses, takes the glasses off of its face, and leaves, the door slamming shut with a resounding bang.

Moments later, the door to the left of NH-01987 opens and the Commander sits down in a nearly identical seat. He puts restraints on himself, which NH-01987 finds odd. It is not like the Commander will run anywhere--he is the one in command, after all. The Commander inserts the key into the appropriate hole, then turns. The car hums to life around them, lights appearing on the dashboard in front of them. Immediately, NH-01987 feels warmer; it seems as though warm air is blowing through the vents. Someone is speaking in the background, their voice lilting in odd ways that result in a flowing sound. Before NH-01987 can decipher whatever it is the person is saying, the Commander pushes a button and the person stops speaking. The message must be meant for people only, not Magitek units. NH-01987 clutches the bird close to its chest.

The Commander glances over at the unit and says, “You really like that thing, huh?”

Unsure of how to respond, NH-01987 chooses the safest course of action. “Yes, s--Cor.”

"I’m glad,” the Commander says, his fingers tapping the steering apparatus in a consistent pattern. “You want some--what am I saying, of course you want some, here, uh, have some water.” The Commander is presenting NH-01987 with one of the bottles. NH-01987 accepts. It looks over the bottle, searching for the opening mechanism. The Commander notices NH-01987’s failure to obey, and swears.

“ _Shit_ , uh, sorry, here,” he says, offering the other bottle. This one has the top removed; NH-01987 wonders if it’s broken. It nods and returns the bottle. The Commander twists the top of the bottle, thereby opening the bottle that NH-01987 had previously struggled with, and drinks. NH-01987 does no such thing, diligently holding onto the bottle and the bird in its hands. The Commander looks over after having taken a large drink.

“You _are_ thirsty, right?”

NH-01987 nods. “I am in need of water. However, I have approximately two weeks and six days before I will stop functioning due to lack of it.”

“That wasn’t... okay, uh, you respond well to orders, right? So, uh, drink as much water as you need.”

“Yes, s--Cor.” NH-01987 lifts the bottle to its lips and takes small sips. It knows from previous experiences that if it drinks too fast after not having water for a significant amount of time it will expel its accumulated nutrients. It does not know when its next nutrient session will be, so it is exceedingly careful.

“Smart kid,” the Commander remarks. “Oh, once you’re finished with what you want, you can put the rest of the water down here,” the Commander gestures to a small hole in the block separating them, “for later.”

NH-01987 nods and does as instructed, the bottle still over three-fourths full. It is best to ration supplies. It does not know how long it will be without access to its nutrient tubes or water.

“Alright, so, today I think we’ll almost make it to the border. So, just take a nap or something? Don’t worry, I’ll wake you up when we get there so we can eat. I’d offer you some noodles now, but I can’t exactly light a fire in the parking lot.” NH-01987 nods like it knows what the Commander is saying.

“And kid? I know you might still not believe me, but I’m not your commander. And-- and you’re safe now. There’s not going to be any more injections, or feeding tubes, or whatever the hell it is you’re used to. No more numbers; you’re not a machine, you’re you. And no one’s going to take that away.”  
NH-01987 bites its lip. It looks down at the bird in its hand, and a part of it begins to believe him.

“Here, I’ll put on some music for us. Uh, classic rock good with you? Wait, shit, you probably don’t…” he says, fumbling with some buttons on the front block of the car. Words are suddenly being spoken, though without the strange lilted tone. This time, NH-01987 catches what it is they are saying.

“ _\--down to Wiz’s Chocobo Ranch!_ ” NH-01987 looks down at the bird in its lap. Didn’t he say it was a chocobo? Maybe, somewhere out beyond the snow-covered tundra of Niflheim, chocobos live. Maybe, one day, NH-01987 will get to see one. It looks out the window. The bright building is already out of sight.

“ _I want to ride my chocobo all day!_ ” the voice calls out, this time affected by the strange lilt. To itself, NH-01987 tries to copy the lilting tone, though it comes out much different. It looks over at the only other being in the car with it, but he is focused on controlling the car. For whatever reason, his lips are pulled up. It is a very different expression than the one he made while previously talking to NH-01987.

The road in front of them stretches on for what appears to be forever, but NH-01987 knows that is impossible.

NH-01987 has never been outside the facility before. All it has ever known was cement walls and cement floor and harsh words and correction. Now, it knows more. A warmth begins in its chest, spreading out to its extremities. It has never sensed this before. The possibility of the warmth being yet another defect crosses NH-01987’s mind, but it dismisses the thought after a few moments of consideration. No defect would feel so much like the sun.

Once, before the defect in question was corrected, NH-01987 saw a vision late at night while it recharged in its storage pod. In the vision, NH-01987 was standing in the training center, the only place where units could see the sky, but there were no Commanders around to order it to train, no tests for it to inevitably fail. It was just NH-01987 and the warmth of the sun.

Now, sitting in the car with the chocobo clutched firmly to its chest, listening to the soft voices of people speaking with lilted tones, NH-01987 thinks that Cor might be the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aranea "i've only known prompto for a day but if anything happens to him i'll kill everyone in this empire and then myself" highwind


	2. move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one step at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back! this actually didn't take as long as I thought it would, which is neat. expect a little less of a wait for the next chapter, cause i ended up cutting 1500 words from this one and moving over there because i was 7000 words in and not even halfway through the planned events. yeah. you may notice that the total number of chapters has changed which is because i realized i'm bad at guessing length for each bullet point. yeah. 
> 
> anyways, thanks again to [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori/pseuds/phori) for absolutely everything. she's wonderful and you should go look at her stuff. please. 
> 
> also thank you so much for every kudo, comment, bookmark, everything really! i super appreciate it. also i won't be responding to comments anymore because i realized i was artificially raising the comment count, so unless it's a direct question, just know i saw it and super appreaciate it!
> 
> brief vomiting warming, if that makes you squeamish
> 
> EDIT 8/26/18: Fixed some formatting issues.

The first time NH-01987 drinks what Cor refers to as ‘Cup Noodles,’ it immediately throws up. The solution tastes too much like sweat; it’s murky and a muted shade of yellow, and NH-01987’s body rejects it almost immediately despite its pacing. Like the water, it had taken small sips, but those had proven to be ineffective. It’s careful to not get any of the vomit on the chocobo still held firmly in its hand. Cor stands up at NH-01987’s waste, eyes wide and mouth open. NH-01987 is already apologizing, but Cor is uninterested. 

“Don’t worry,” he says in response, “no, don’t worry about that, I just-- what’s that in your puke, kid?”

NH-01987 glances down at the puddle on the ground. It consists of the black sludge the scientists in the facility would inject it with--no different than any other time it has vomited due to overexertion. 

“It is-- it’s normal, Cor,” NH-01987 tries to explain.

“That black stuff is normal for you?” NH-01987 nods. “Do you-- fuck, do you know what that is?”

NH-01987 shakes its head. It just knows that after the daily injections into its bloodstream, whenever it vomited the vomit would be stained black. It was normal. 

“That’s-- that’s daemon blood. Were you injected with something that looks like that?”

“Yes, Cor.”

“So that’s why your eyes are red…” Cor trails off. “I see. When we get to Insomnia, I’ll see if there’s any way we can help you get that... _out_. Are there any side-effects I need to be aware of?”

“Fully converted Magitek units are unable to stand in the sun. However, unfinished products are able to, though they are faced with severe burns and pain.”

“So you can’t go into the sun without some serious repercussions.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes,” NH-01987 answers regardless.

“Alright so. Okay. This is--okay, change of plans. There’re some blankets in the car, I can use those to block the side windows. And you’ll have to sit in the back, that’s fine. _Shit_ , the back window’ll still have light coming through; I can’t cover it or we might get pulled over, and we can’t risk that.”

NH-01987 still does not quite understand all of what Cor is saying, so it says what it thinks Cor needs to hear regarding its abilities.

“I am able to withstand the sun’s light without too many repercussions. However, if units are exposed to sunlight for prolonged period of time, there are negative effects”

“Alright, how long until you start getting burned?” Cor asks. 

“Unknown.”

“Uh, shit, that’s not great. We’ll have to keep you out of the sun, just in case. So, tomorrow morning-- _shit_ , I wish it weren’t so dangerous to travel at night-- I’ll cover up the windows and you can, I don’t know, pull up the hood of your jacket or something? And the boat ride. I guess we’ll have to make do with your jacket, it’s big enough to cover most of you.”

“ _Shit_ , the boat ride. We’re gonna have to come up with something to call you other than ‘kid,’ at least for ticketing and immigration. You’ll need a proper name.”

“My designation is 05953234.”

“Other than those damn numbers. Why don’t you start with naming something easy-- why not that chocobo of yours?”

“Name it?” NH-01987 questions; Cor is introducing so many foreign concepts that it does not know where to start.

“Hmmm, how to explain this… Well, to start my name’s Cor, right? Cor Leonis. My mother gave me that name. When I was a kid, I had a stuffed moogle and named it Mog. It showed that it was more than a stuffed moogle, it was _my_ stuffed moogle. So-- I’m not explaining this very well, am I?”

NH-01987 is completely and utterly lost. It licks its lips, avoiding eye contact with Cor, instead choosing to stare into the black eyes of the chocobo. 

“Here, why don’t I come up with some names and you choose which one you like best? Does that sound good?”

“I do not understand what like means in this context. How will choosing a designation for the chocobo result in approval?”

“Oh fuck. Uh, like in this context means to desire--no that’s not right. It means something brings you happiness, no, wait you probably don’t know that one either.” Cor is correct; NH-01987 does not know what happiness means. “Okay so, if you like something, it means that it makes you feel like... it’s something right. It’s not wrong, to you it fits, it’s something that you don’t want taken away. Does that make sense?” Cor is looking at NH-01987 expectantly. 

NH-01987 thinks back. “Is ‘like’ similar to the warm feeling?”  
“What warm feeling? You mean when I turned the heaters on in the car?”

“No, Cor, though that instance did result in a similar feeling. It was...holding the chocobo, and hearing the voices. It was those, and then there was a warmth that started here,” NH-01987 explains, pointing to its chest. 

Cor pulls the corners of his mouth up. “That’s what happiness is, kid. The warmth? It means you liked holding the chocobo and listening to music on the radio.”

“Oh,” NH-01987 says. It thinks it is beginning to understand. 

“Alright, so, do you want some names for your chocobo?” NH-01987 nods; it thinks that the chocobo deserves a name. It has already done so much for it. “Hmm, how about Charlie? Chuck? Choco? Uh, Bo? You’re killin’ me here kid, I’m terrible at naming things.”

“Bo?” NH-01987 questions. 

“Yeah, you know, like choco- _bo_. Bo.”

“Chocobo-bo? Bobo?”

Once again, the corners of Cor’s mouth are lifted. “I think you found his name, kid.”

“Bobo,” NH-01987 tests, looking at the chocobo. It fits. Just like its production number is 05953234, this chocobo’s name is Bobo. The warm feeling-- happiness?-- makes itself known in its chest once more. The corners of NH-01987’s lips pull themselves up, unbidden. 

“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile,” Cor remarks quietly. 

“Smile?”

“You know,” Cor points to his mouth and pulls the corners upwards, “a smile. It’s what you do when you’re happy.”

“Happy,” NH-01987 echoes, “Am I happy?”

Cor smiles. “I sure hope so, kid.” 

* * *

That night, Cor and NH-01987 recharge at a stone platform with intricate, glowing symbols. Looking at the symbols and staying too close to them makes NH-01987’s stomach feel like it’s about to eject all the nutrients it fought hard to keep down, so it stays off to the side, careful not to touch the glowing lines with its bare feet. Cor moves next to the unit, and unfolds a series of interconnected wires, then stretches a cloth canvas overtop, creating a makeshift shelter for himself. He then opens the storage compartment of the car, removing several large cloth squares. The cloth squares are then placed inside the shelter. NH-01987 is unsure what to do from there-- it is only used to resting in storage pods, and the lack of one leaves it uncertain.

Cor notices its hesitation. “C’mon in, kid. You’ll catch a cold out there.” 

NH-01987 does as commanded and enters the makeshift shelter. It is warmer inside than it is outside, where snow continues to fall against the night sky. However, upon entering the shelter NH-01987’s stomach begins to churn, resulting in a feeling similar to when it vomited. Sweat breaks out on its forehead. Cor is sitting down to NH-01987’s left, and he pats the floor in what NH-01987 assumes to be a summons. It moves to Cor side at the place designated, and Cor smiles.

“Here, sit down, get comfortable. It’s gonna be a cold night.”

NH-01987 complies, sitting down next to Cor. Cor puts an arm around NH-01987’s shoulders and pulls it in closer. Once NH-01987 makes contact with Cor’s skin, it realizes how impossibly warm Cor is. It involuntarily leans in to Cor’s touch, pressing itself against Cor’s body.

“You tired?” Cor asks. He does not pull away from NH-01987.

“Yes, Cor,” NH-01987 says. It tastes bile at the back of its throat. 

“Well, lie down.” NH-01987 swallows, but obeys. It only ever lies down when preparing for an injection or the installation of another port. It does not see the tools necessary to complete either of those tasks around it; regardless, it clutches Bobo closer to its chest. The nausea is building, and its eyes begin to moisten. It does not want to cry out, but its stomach is tight and its body temperature is way above average. Cor was previously warm, but now he feels cold. NH-01987 is burning, it thinks, from the inside out. 

Unable to contain it any longer, NH-01987 rolls over on its side and expels the last of the contents of its stomach. Cor is immediately by its side, and streams of tears slide down its face. It heaves once more, and then another wave of nausea hits but there is nothing left to come out. 

The vomit is all over Cor’s cloth square, and NH-01987 readies itself for the reprimand. It holds Bobo close to its chest, relieved that none of the vomit had contaminated its small body. 

Cor puts his hand on NH-01987’s back and starts rubbing in slow circles. It does not feel like any reprimand NH-01987 has felt in the past. Rather, it is similar to entering the warm car from the bitter cold. It is happy? No, NH-01987 thinks between gasps, it does not think that is the correct usage of the word. 

“What’s wrong, kid?” Cor asks quietly. “I thought you managed to keep the broth down.”

“Unrelated,” NH-01987 manages to get out. “Possibility of being-- _hrk_ \-- caused by runes.” 

NH-01987 is not looking at Cor, but it feels his hand stop in its circles abruptly. “ _Shit_!” he exclaims. He picks up NH-01987 from its prone position, hands still loosely grasping Bobo. Cor is running to the car. As soon as the two leave the rock platform, NH-01987 feels immediately better. It is closer to full functionality, but not in perfect condition. Waves of nausea still force their way through NH-01987’s body, and it fights the urge to vomit every few seconds or so. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-- _fuck,_ I should have known the daemon blood in you would have a bad reaction to _daemon repelling_ runes. Shit, I’m so sorry kid.”

“Unnecessary,” NH-01987 weakly responds to Cor’s apologies. “Apologies for rendering your shelter unusable and ruining your possessions.” NH-01987 is aware that apologies rarely do anything to soften the blows of correction, but it always tries. There is no choice; if it does not try, then it is complacent. 

“It’s okay, kid,” Cor says as he gently places NH-01987 in the back compartment, but not the storage compartment, of the car. NH-01987 is situated such that it is lying across all three seats. Its right arm is pinned to its side by the backs of the cloth chairs, but it does not feel trapped. Coupled with its subsiding nausea and Cor’s hand still pressed firmly against its back, NH-01987 feels protected. 

“Guess we’ll be sleeping in the car tonight. I’ll go grab the tent and blankets. Will you be okay here on your own?” NH-01987 cannot see Cor’s face, but it assumes he can see its own so it nods. “Alright, good. I’ll be right be back.”

The warming presence of Cor’s hand disappears, and NH-01987 is left feeling both freezing cold and burning hot. The heat is self-contained, the feeling of burning coming from NH-01987’s own body. A true defect. The cold, however, comes from outside the car, as snow falls slowly but steadily from the clouds above. Cor did not close the door. NH-01987 curls in on itself, pressing its body closer to the back of the chairs and holding Bobo close to its chest.

It hears footsteps only a few minutes later. Something large and heavy is suddenly draped across its body, like restraints, but loose. A hand is suddenly running through its short hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Cor apologizes once more. “You must have been cold, huh?”

“Yes, Cor,” NH-01987 mumbles. The covering is warm, as is the hand pressed gently against its head. Despite the added warmth of the covering, NH-01987 does not feel any hotter than it previously did. The chill is almost completely gone, though large shudders wrack NH-01987’s body sporadically. 

“Alright, I’m going to put the rest of the stuff in the trunk, then I’ll join you in the car. Does that sound alright?” NH-01987 nods. Cor leaves once more, and there are a few moments of silence, then shuffling and a few loud sounds that indicate something heavy being dropped in the storage compartment of the car. There is another, louder sound reminiscent of training drills in which units were ordered to shoot at each other that causes NH-01987 to jump despite its prone position. It falls onto the floor of the car, and within seconds Cor returns. 

“What’re you doing on the floor?” he questions. 

NH-01987 swallows. “Apologies,” it says weakly, lying stiff on the cold floor. Its heart is pounding in its chest, its defects revealing themselves. It does not think Cor will decommission it, but it can never be sure when Cor will decide that NH-01987 is unsalvageable. Perhaps the loud sound was a test to judge its ability to follow orders, to remain lying prone. It failed, unquestionably.

“No need for that,” Cor says reaching down and picking NH-01987 up once more. It relaxes in his grip, already pressing itself and Bobo into Cor’s chest.

“When was the last time someone held you the way I am? Without hurting you.”

“When you first deposited me in the car.”

“No, I mean, before me. In the-- the training facility or whatever you call it”

“...Units were never held in that way.” NH-01987 knows this is not the answer Cor wants, but it must be honest. It does not want to be punished for lying.

“Shit, kid,” Cor says disapprovingly. He sets NH-01987 back down on the chairs. “You... _fuck_ , you really didn’t deserve such a shitty life.” Cor goes silent before speaking up once more.

“I’m gonna sleep in the front seat, is that okay with you?” NH-01987 nods. It is ‘okay’ with anything Cor desires. It does not want to disappoint him in any way. Although Cor is not a Commander, NH-01987 feels the same desire to do well, be better. Though it knows Cor will likely not correct it, it is still motivated to do as he says. It thinks its motivation might come from seeing him smile. 

“Alright. You try and get some rest, and I’ll see you in the morning, okay? Wake me if you need anything.” NH-01987 nods even though it knows Cor cannot see it, then begins following protocol for recharging periods. It crosses its hands over its chest, Bobo held loosely beneath, and closes its eyes and begins a slow, rhythmic breathing pattern.  Within minutes, its consciousness is fading away. Before it falls completely into unconsciousness, NH-01987 notes that its energy reserves must have been especially low for it to enter stasis so quickly. 

NH-01987 awakens to a burning sensation in its face. It immediately opens it eyes, and regrets it seconds later. The sun is pouring in from multiple windows, covering the interior of the vehicle with dangerous sunlight. NH-01987 rolls over onto the floor, pulling the square cloth up to cover its head as well as the rest of its body. It is dark, but it is safe. Nevertheless, NH-01987 heart beats at a rate much faster than normal. NH-01987 dropped Bobo when executing its roll, so it presses its hands close to its chest in an imitation of holding the chocobo. 

There are sounds from the front of the car, which NH-01987 assumes to be Cor. NH-01987 stiffens; the sound it made must have disturbed Cor’s rest. NH-01987 hears a door open and slam shut, then the sound of snow crunching under heavy-booted feet, and finally, the door opens. NH-01987 knows Cor is standing right outside. A hand rests on its shoulder and shakes it gently. 

“You having a love affair with the floor or something? I keep finding you here.” NH-01987 does not know how to reply, so it does not. At NH-01987’s silence, Cor continues, “Hey, are you alright? I know a car isn’t the most comfortable place to sleep but you don’t need to hang out down there. You even forgot your chocobo.” 

“I--apologies, Cor. The sun--” NH-01987 is cut off by Cor’s exclamation.

“ _Fuck!_ I’m-- _Ramuh’s hairy balls_ \-- I’m so sorry. I completely forgot-- I wasn’t thinking last night about the morning, Six kid, are you alright?” There is a lot in Cor’s speech for NH-01987 to parse through, and it takes it a few moments to come up with a response. 

“Damage was minimal.” Under the cloth square, NH-01987 feels its face over. “Only two blisters formed.”

“ _Shit_ , you got burned that bad? Six, kid, I’m so sorry, I should have known better.” NH-01987 remains silent. The blanket covering is starting to feel suffocating. 

“Here, let me help you back on the seat,” Cor says and gently grabs NH-01987 under the armpits. Though the cloth square remains covering NH-01987, as Cor lifts it up a ray of sunlight bursts through an opening and hits NH-01987’s hand. It is both hot and warm, pleasant and burning. It is a contradiction, just like Cor: the not-Commander who cares for NH-01987 like it is an actual human, even though it knows that Cor is fully aware it is not. There is no lasting damage from the sun, but it still stings. 

NH-01987 is placed down on the seat once more, and Bobo is placed gently by its head. This time, no sunlight makes its way through the cover of the cloth. NH-01987 reaches up slowly and grabs Bobo, pulling him down to sit on NH-01987’s chest, careful not to disturb the cloth covering.

Cor exhales harshly. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats. NH-01987 does not know what to say, as all previous attempts to explain to Cor that apologies are unnecessary were ignored. The thought still causes NH-01987 distress; it is a Magitek unit and Cor is a human, and humans do not apologize to Magitek units, regardless of rank. There is so much about Cor that NH-01987 does not understand. 

“Well,” Cor says, cutting through the silence that had overtaken the car, “at least we found an easier way to keep you out of the sun. I don’t know why I didn’t think of just putting the blanket over you.” Cor puts hand on NH-01987’s head from outside the cloth. The constant pressure on NH-01987’s head makes it feel happy. “I’m sorry you got hurt. I promise I’ll do better.”

NH-01987 licks its lips, careful not to contaminate the cloth covering with its saliva. It wants to say something to Cor to make him happy, because currently Cor seems displeased. NH-01987 does not like seeing him displeased, not just because of fear of punishment. 

“You have done well,” NH-01987 says quietly, hoping that the words are what Cor needs to hear. It is strange to speak without being prompted.

“I really haven’t, kid. Six, we still haven’t come up with a name for you yet.” 

“My designation is--”

“I know what your designation is. A name’s different.” NH-01987 goes silent as Cor removes his hand from NH-01987’s head. NH-01987 thinks that if Cor kept his hand on its head, it wouldn’t feel anything other than happiness for a long time. 

“I’m gonna start the car. We’ve got a ways to go. The docks should only be about an hour, and the boat ride’ll be a bit longer. Oh, I forgot to ask, are you hungry? I got some more Cup Noodles that I could heat up real quick.”

NH-01987 shakes its head, then remembers Cor cannot see it. “I am not in immediate need of nutrients.” It remembers the taste of the ‘Cup Noodles,’ something that reminded it of sweat, on its tongue. It is happy it does not need to ‘eat’ at this time. 

“Alright, if you’re sure. We’ll stop at a restaurant at the port and I’ll get you some real soup, sound good?”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. Perhaps ‘real soup’ can be transferred through its ports. 

“Oh, one more thing,” Cor says, shuffling about in the snow. The cloth is lifted up momentarily, but again not enough for sunlight to pour in, and the glasses are placed by NH-01987’s head. 

“Put these on for now, just in case.” NH-01987 complies, the glasses darkening its vision further. “Alright, good, I’m going to shut the door and start the car now, okay? Let me know if you need anything.” 

The car door slams shut, but thanks to Cor’s warning NH-01987 does not jump, and its heart rate does not malfunction and increase. Perhaps Cor is aware of NH-01987’s defects, but chooses not to take corrective action. 

NH-01987 hears another door open, and it assumes it to be Cor entering the front of the car. There is a click and another slam, as NH-01987 presumes Cor fastens his restraints and shuts the door. The car hums to life beneath NH-01987, and it feels movement though it cannot see anything happening. The voices are back--NH-01987 thinks Cor called it a ‘radio’--and NH-01987 focuses on the strange rise and fall of their voices. Listening to the radio helps NH-01987 forget the darkness that engulfs it, helps it forget lying in the darkness of the lab, waiting for more injections and implants. The cloth on top of NH-01987 presses down, threatening to halt NH-01987’s breathing entirely and crush its chest. As it is, its heart speeds up once more, as does its breathing. NH-01987 tries to match its breathing to the rise and fall of the radio’s voice. There is a slow beat in the background of its voice that NH-01987 does not have the words to describe. It is reminiscent of the pattern of footsteps that echo through the halls of the facility when training for a march. It is to this pattern that NH-01987 matches its breathing.

NH-01987 has just matched its breathing to the rhythm of the footstep-like sound when the radio changes. The footsteps are still there, but faster, and the voices are more aggressive. NH-01987 feels that if it matched its breathing to this rhythm, it would pass out. It had happened before, before NH-01987 was able to keep its breaths steady on the examination table, before it learned to hold in the gasping breaths and tears. 

Before it learned what a Magitek unit was, and what it was meant to be. But NH-01987 knows better now, and even if it is not on an examination table it is still lying prone, so it stabilizes its breathing, forcefully keeping its inhales and exhales slow and steady. The radio fades away, and though its heart still pounds in its chest, NH-01987 knows that there are no examiners in the room-- _car._ It is just NH-01987 and Cor.

NH-01987 sits there, body entirely still, beneath the cloth covering, and _breathes_. 

* * *

Time passes. NH-01987 does not know how long--it has yet to be equipped with the necessary equipment; nevertheless, time passes and the car comes to a halt. 

The door next to it opens, and NH-01987 knows it is Cor standing there. This makes NH-01987 happy. 

“We’re here,” Cor says. He moves the cloth covering and a beam of sunlight hits NH-01987 square in the face. It winces, but gives no other indication of its pain. It is used to worse, and it does not want Cor to think it is weak. 

Cor grunts, “Shit, sorry kid. You think you’ll be able to make it out here?” NH-01987 nods, and moves underneath the covering, attempting to sit up. Cor gives it some assistance, putting a hand on its back and giving it a push that is not a push, but more assistance in rising from its prone position. As soon as the covering is removed, NH-01987’s face burns, though its eyes remain undamaged, likely due to to the glasses. This time, it is prepared and gives no sign that it is in any distress. 

Cor immediately grabs up the hood that NH-01987 is wearing, pulling it up and over NH-01987’s head. The hood is large enough that NH-01987 does not have the sun burning its face any more. Cor pulls the hood forward a little bit more, ensuring its face is entirely covered by its shade. Cor fumbles with the bottom of the jacket for a moment before zipping the opposite sides together. He then reaches into his pants’ pocket and pulls out large gloves, which he affixes loosely to NH-01987’s hands. 

It seems as though Cor has made it a makeshift suit to keep the sun from damaging NH-01987 further. This makes NH-01987 happy. 

Cor sighs, “Sorry kid, this is the best I can do for now. Just try and keep the sun out of your face, and everything’ll be alright, okay? Oh, and try and keep your glasses on; it’d be bad if they fell off in public.” NH-01987 nods. Cor smiles, and puts his hand on the top of the hood. “Yeah, you’ll do fine. You wanna come with me to grab some food? There’s a food stand right over there,” Cor says, pointing. “I’ll get you some real food-- I’m sure they’ve got something light.” NH-01987 nods once more. Cor reaches down and grabs its hand lightly in his own larger one. 

“Alright, this way,” he says and starts walking in the direction of a line leading up to a large vehicle. NH-01987 wonders why he felt it necessary to physically guide it, as NH-01987 has proved in the past that it was capable of following orders. Despite seemingly having lost Cor’s trust, NH-01987 feels happy at the constant warmth of his hand. Cor is not holding tightly, and NH-01987 feels like it did the night before, when first enveloped in the cloth covering. 

Cor approaches the end of the line and stops, releasing NH-01987’s hand. Cor does not move any further, instead raising his wrist to his face and nodding. 

“Yeah, we got time,” he says. He and NH-01987 remain in that line for a short amount of time, the short line growing shorter by the minute. Cor walks up to the human male standing inside the vehicle. He stares at a board that proclaims, “ _ Two for one for all sandwiches!”  _ More words are written below the larger ones, but none make any sense to NH-01987. It does not know what ‘pastrami’ means.

Cor makes a vibrating noise from deep in his chest, seemingly lost in thought, and says, “Yeah, I’ll get the beef sandwich and uh, some chicken soup? Do you think I could get it without the noodles and chicken, though?”

The male standing within the vehicle stares. “You want chicken broth,” he says. His voice is flat, expressionless. NH-01987 knows that Commanders sound like that when they are displeased. NH-01987 hesitantly places itself between Cor and the threat. It does not want Cor to be not happy. The man in the car stares down at NH-01987. 

“Nice getup, kid.”

A hand is placed on NH-01987’s head. 

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I want. I’ll pay whatever-- just, can you do it?” The man in the vehicle tilts his head upwards, his eyes briefly looking to the ceiling of the vehicle.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, voice still expressionless and dull. It doesn’t seem like he poses any immediate threat to Cor though, so NH-01987 steps back. The hand is removed from its head and Cor is digging through his pocket once more. “That’ll be 260 gil, sir.”

Cor pulls out similar paper rectangles from the night before and hands them over. The man inside the vehicle takes them, and hands Cor back four differently colored rectangles. 

“Your order’s number fifteen, they’ll call you over there when it’s ready.” Cor nods, and grabs NH-01987’s hand once more. The two walk to where the man inside the vehicle gestured, and wait for some time more. Cor grabs a cylinder of something and something NH-01987 does not have the words to describe. It is almost rectangular, though misshapen, and composed of several different layers of  _ something _ . NH-01987 assumes that it is what human food must look like.

Cor hands NH-01987 the cylinder. The container is weak and caves beneath the pressure of its grip. The contents look similar to the ‘Cup Noodle’ from before: namely, a dilute yellow liquid that appears to cling to the insides of the cylinder. 

“Drink as much as you need, but don’t overdo it. Don’t want you getting seasick,” Cor says. He takes a large bite of his food item, working it thoroughly in his mouth and then swallowing. NH-01987 stares, fascinated, but upon seeing Cor’s tilted head and drawn eyebrows, it turns to the cylinder. It brings the cylinder to its lips, taking a small sip. The solution inside still tastes like sweat, but it is much less pronounced. It is closer to water, which makes NH-01987 happy. The ‘Cup Noodles’ tasted too much like sweat-- but, again, not quite the same-- for NH-01987’s stomach to handle. This solution is much more dilute, allowing NH-01987 to ingest the necessary nutrients without fear of it vomiting once more. Still, NH-01987, it would make NH-01987 happy if its nutrients were given via its ports. That is what it is accustomed to.

NH-01987 drinks half of the solution, then turns to Cor who has finished his food. It offers the cylinder to him, and Cor accepts. He looks in at the contents, then at NH-01987. NH-01987 stiffens automatically. Did it not ingest enough of the solution? Did it ingest _too much_? Will this finally be what it takes for Cor to realize how defective it is and how--

“Glad you managed to get something down,” Cor says, interrupting NH-01987’s fear-induced thoughts. “I was worried you might-- well, never mind. Just, try and keep it down on the boat, okay?” NH-01987 nods. The two wait in silence until Cor takes NH-01987’s hand once more and leads it to a large body of water. NH-01987 had not noticed the water before, preoccupied as it was with Cor’s strange mannerisms and the sweat-like solution. The body of water is large, larger than NH-01987 has ever seen in its short existing. It cannot see where the water ends and land begins in the distance, so it must not be a lake. The shoreline does not even begin to curve around to form any sort of circular shape; rather, it continues as a semi-straight line into the distance. Small waves break the surface of the water, further proving NH-01987’s hypothesis. Lakes do not have waves unless disturbed, and there is nothing big enough that NH-01987 can see that could be causing so many of the. There is a boarding area and an aquatic vehicle, but nothing else. It clutches Bobo tight to its chest, careful to make sure that the small chocobo will not fall in.

NH-01987 licks its lips. “What is that?”

“What’s what?” Cor asks, following NH-01987’s gaze. 

“The-- the large body of water.”

“Oh. That’s the, uh, ocean. It’s made of salt water, which means you can’t drink it, and it covers most of the planet.”

“What’s salt?”  

“Hmmm… Salt’s this, uh, mineral that you can put in food and stuff to store it for longer, or to make it taste better.”

“How does a mineral increase the taste of a food object?”

Cor pauses. “Good question. Well, salt kind of tastes like sweat, but a little less...disgusting. When you put it on food it just, helps it taste like something.”

“Oh,” NH-01987 says. “Was the ‘Cup Noodles’ salty?” Cor smiles and nods. Cor’s smile triggers the feeling of happiness, and the two continue their walk. NH-01987 notes that Cor seems to be leading it to the boarding area. Cor walks up to the wooden platform that appears to serve as the boarding area, and hands several colored papers to the man standing next to the aquatic vehicle. 

“There are seats available in the back for you and your son, Sir,” the man says, gesturing at the vehicle.

Cor’s face turns a shade of red NH-01987 had only seen when previous Commanders yelled at Magitek units for not performing to standards. Cor did not seem angry, though. Perhaps it indicated another emotion? Humans were so complex. 

“C’mon kid,” he ordered, stepping onto the vehicle. NH-01987 went to follow, but noticed the dark, wave-filled water below it. Its stomach dropped. One moment it was looking at the ocean, and the next there were hands grasping its shoulders roughly, pushing it into a storage pod as it did not fight, but did not comply either. It’s limbs were weak, but wait, there’s something in its arms? How can that be, it is in a storage pod and there is nothing in a storage pod but a Magitek unit so what--?

A slight pressure on its arm brings NH-01987 back to the present. It is Cor’s arm, resting softly on NH-01987’s own, both of which are pressed firm to its chest as it clutches Bobo like a lifeline. Cor’s face isn’t displeased-- his eyebrows are drawn together and the corners of his mouth pressed downwards in a clear frown, but he does not look to be preparing to punish NH-01987.

Cor steps back on the wooden platform and says, “I’m going to pick you up now, okay?” NH-01987 nods and lifts its arms slightly, still clinging to Bobo as if it is the last water supplement for a week. Cor picks it up by the armpits and carries NH-01987 over to the aquatic vehicle before setting it down. NH-01987 stares at the floor. Cor reaches down, and his hand rubs lightly across NH-01987’s scalp and short hair. It’s hair is longer than most Magitek units-- a shave had been planned but never enacted likely due to its planned decommissioning. It understands why the facility would not waste resources or time on a defective product. 

It wonders why Cor does.

Cor does not notice the conflict raging on the inside of NH-01987, or at least gives no indication that he notices. 

“Let’s go get a seat,” he says, holding out a hand for NH-01987 to grab onto. It hesitates, arm outreached, but not yet in Cor’s grasp. It’s so-- uncertain, Cor is, why is he offering it a choice? How does that benefit him? NH-01987 is not human and just a slip-up away from being completely defective. Why has he been so-- not happy, Cor hasn’t been happy, but what he’s done has made NH-01987 happy, teaching it words and allowing it to ask questions and seeing the ocean and sleeping on a chair, not in a pod, and there is so, _so_ much that Cor does that makes NH-01987 happy.

NH-01987 puts its hand in Cor’s much larger one and allows him to take it further into the vehicle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 aka how many times can prompto misuse the word 'happy'


	3. resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> decisions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, formatting this chapter and crying, regretting every second of my love affair with italics
> 
> as always, thanks to [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori) for everything. she's the mcfreaking best.

Shortly after the two are settled in padded chairs, the engine of the vehicle turns on and the vehicle is propelled across the water. Upon NH-01987’s inquiry, Cor explains that the vehicle is known as a ‘boat.’ The boat goes much faster than a car, and this results in NH-01987’s stomach jumping up into its throat. It is not a bad feeling, but it is not necessarily good either. There is a brief moment where NH-01987 thinks it is going to expel the ‘real soup’ Cor provided, but it manages to swallow its vomit. They are on the boat for a long time, but it feels much shorter than when they travelled in the car. NH-01987 thinks it is because it no longer has to lie prone beneath the cloth covering. Though the sun occasionally hits NH-01987’s face, it finds the pain bearable and continues looking out over the rapidly changing landscape.

NH-01987 enters stasis sometime during the trip, and is woken up by Cor’s proclamation of, “We’re here.” NH-01987 does not know where ‘here’ is, but it nods regardless. 

Cor leads NH-01987 out of the shelter of the boat and to the boarding area once more. As soon as it steps outside the shade, NH-01987 begins to sweat. It is hot-- hotter than NH-01987 had any idea the world could possibly be. It is a different kind of heat than the night before, however, as that that heat was internal while this kind is external. NH-01987 looks up briefly, then immediately wishes it had not, as the sun burns its face. It was strange; normally, it takes more than a second for any kind of burn to form. It seems as though this sun was unnaturally brighter than the one in Niflheim. There is no snow to be found, simply the ocean and and a long, wooden boarding platform in the distance connected to a much closer wooden building. The sea beneath its feet is brighter than the one they departed from, a bright aqua blue as opposed to a dark navy. 

Cor moves and NH-01987 follows, hurriedly tracing his footsteps. Cor pauses and looks back at NH-01987. 

“Guess you still have some time to come up with a name, huh?” NH-01987 nods, and catches up to Cor’s side. The two continue walking, NH-01987 holding Bobo close so as to not drop and hurt him. They walk through the building. There are many humans inside, most of whom ignore Cor and NH-01987. As they approach the beginning of the longer wooden platform, one man says, “Enjoy your stay at Galdin Quay!” Cor nods, but says nothing back. 

The wooden platform is long, but not anything NH-01987 isn’t used to labor-wise. It has walked faster for much longer. It remembers running laps around the facility with the NH-01986 and NH-01987 units. When running, unit 05953234 always placed first. Agility tests were the one of the few tests it ever placed first in. 

Too absorbed in its thoughts, NH-01987 did not notice when the platform ended and stairs began. It starts to fall forward, gravity taking a hold of its body and pushing it down. It holds Bobo close, hoping the small chocobo will not be damaged in the fall. NH-01987 hears a brief exclamation, and then it feels a large, warm hand firmly grasping its shoulder. The grip is more like what it was used to in the facility and it feels like the person behind the hand may cause some bruising. NH-01987 is pulled back suddenly, the hand letting go and two resting on its shoulders. 

“You okay there, kid?” Cor asks, bent over and staring at NH-01987’s face. NH-01987 nods. 

“Unit is functional, Cor,” NH-01987 relates. 

“That’s not what I asked,” Cor says, the corners of his mouth pulled down and eyebrows pushed together. NH-01987 pauses. Nothing ever mattered to Commanders other than the functionality of units, and it knows in its head that Cor is not a Commander, but every part of it screams that he is, that it has to _obey_ and be good and prove itself worthy of commissioning. 

NH-01987 licks its lips. “Slight pain around ankle and arm, Cor.” Cor makes a face that is close to, but entirely different from a frown. The corners of his mouth are pulled tight, forming a straight line and his eyebrows remain furrowed. 

“Ah, shit, I’m sorry kid. I didn’t mean to grab you that hard. I just reacted, but that doesn’t justify-- is something wrong?” 

NH-01987 decides to voice its confusion. “Why are you apologizing to a Magi--” NH-01987 is abruptly cut off by Cor’s hand on its mouth. The movement of his hand is fast, and it instinctively flinches, but the contact is light. It does not seem like punishment, merely a warning to remain quiet. Cor slowly removes his hand from NH-01987’s mouth. It remains quiet.

“Don’t need that fact broadcast to the entire Lucian kingdom,” Cor says, the smile on his face strained and odd. NH-01987 does not think that expression denotes happiness. NH-01987 nods; it does not know what it could pass as other than a Magitek unit, but perhaps there are similar beings by the ocean. It notes that Cor did not answer its question.

Cor grabs NH-01987’s hand and slowly leads it down the wooden stairs, then continues to a wooden bench. He sits down, and NH-01987 follows suit. 

“I called a while back, so the car should be here pretty soon. Then we’ll be in Insomnia, uh, do you know what Insomnia is?” NH-01987 nods; Insomnia is the main target of the Niflheim army, but has yet to fall due to its wall that is powered by a crystal.

“What are my orders once we enter?”

“Orders?” Cor questions, then stiffens, saying “Oh, right, just stay close to me and don’t hurt anyone or cause any damage.”

NH-01987 nods. The orders are odd, much more lax than it is used to. Normally there are specific instructions: go to these coordinates, run ten lengths of the facility, or shoot until the assigned gun is out of ammunition. The lack of specificity in Cor’s instructions makes NH-01987’s hands shudder briefly, before it grabs one with his other to steady them. Unsteady hands make for unsteady shots, and though NH-01987 does not have a gun in its hand it knows that it must not show weakness in front of Cor.

Cor stands up suddenly, gaze locked on a car approaching in the distance. It stops in front of the two, and Cor walks up and the window is rolled down, a voice emanating from inside the vehicle. 

“Good to see you safe, Marshal. You got the asset?” Cor nods and gestures for NH-01987 to approach the car. It does, and stands at attention. 

“What the hell-- is that a kid? And-- what is that kid wearing, Marshal? Did you just-- _a snowcoat in Galdin Quay_? Really?”

Cor exhales firmly. “We don’t have time to discuss the kid’s fashion right now, and frankly, it’s way above your paygrade.” Cor opens the back door for NH-01987. “Climb in, kid.” NH-01987 does as told, and sits in the offered seat. Cor leans in, fastening the restraint, then moves to the other side of the car and opens the door across from NH-01987.

NH-01987 can hear the displeasure in the man in the car’s voice when he says, “Sitting in the back?”

“Hm,” is Cor’s only response. The man in the front of the car shuffles a bit in his seat, then starts the car in its course. The man-- driver, he must be Cor’s personal driver, Cor must be a very important person-- lets loose some soft sounds that resemble the radio from earlier, only without the words. It makes NH-01987 happy and it holds Bobo in front of itself and tries to copy the noises while staring into the chocobo’s eyes. It glances over at Cor, who is smiling at NH-01987. Its attempts at copying the lilt seem to please Cor, so NH-01987 goes a bit further. 

“ _I want to r-ride my chocob-bo all day_ ,” it stutters, attempting to copy the radio from the previous night. Cor’s smile grows, and he reaches over and rubs his hand on NH-01987’s scalp.

“You like singing?”  
“Singing?” 

Cor’s expression drops momentarily, though it reforms itself into a smile in an instant. “The, uh, ‘ _I want to ride…_ ’” Cor copies, trailing off into silence. “The way you move your voice, er, tone, I guess, up and down? That’s singing.”

“Oh,” NH-01987 says. “Am I allowed to sing?”

“Of course you are,” Cor says, expression dropping and staying that way. NH-01987 nods, but does not continue singing. Cor seems unhappy now, and it is NH-01987 who is at fault. The driver does not resume his wordless singing either, and the rest of the ride passes in silence.

The landscape passes by in a blur and NH-01987’s face is plastered to the window the entire time. There is no snow anywhere to be seen, and NH-01987 sees strange creatures that run outside the car, all long teeth and sharp claws. Even though the sun burns its face, NH-01987 continues staring at the foreign scenery; it finds the burn to be a necessary pain, as it knows it cannot miss a single second. It would stand in the sun for hours if it meant being able to observe this landscape. 

Unfortunately, the car is moving too fast and NH-01987’s eyesight is too poor, so it misses most of the finer details. It would like it if the car slowed down, but it knows that what it likes is irrelevant to the mission, so it remains quiet. 

The car slows down briefly when passing through a glowing, orange light that leaves NH-01987 hunched over and gasping for breath. It feels-- its body feels-- it is not itself anymore, it can feel the daemon blood in its body protesting the entry and NH-01987 puts a hand to its mouth in an ineffective attempt to stem the flow of daemon blood that is leaking from its mouth and eyes. The gloves Cor used to cover its hands previously are stained black, and NH-01987 cannot talk between heaving breaths and its shuddering body. Its hands shake as it pulls them away from its mouth, not wanting to dirty Cor’s gloves any more than it already has.

Cor is at its side. One of his large hands is rubbing its back in small circles, while the other has a light grasp on NH-01987’s knee. He’s saying something, but NH-01987 cannot hear what it is. The car has come to complete halt, and NH-01987 is hurriedly escorted out by Cor. The driver is yelling something, but Cor does not respond, instead talking quietly by its ear.

“It’s okay, it’ll be okay, just get it out, you don’t have to hold it in.” The hood has been removed from NH-01987’s head, and all the daemon blood that lingered on its face evaporates in the sun’s burning light. NH-01987 is bent over, daemon blood expelling itself. The moment the blood leaves its mouth, it evaporates in the air, leaving no trace of NH-01987’s defect. For that, it is not happy, definitely not happy, but something similar.

The vomiting has stopped, so NH-01987 assumes the worst of the defect’s effects have passed. It still feels like its stomach is-- how the ocean in Niflheim looked, with the short, constant waves breaking the surface. It’s entire body is shuddering now, not just its hands, and it takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to quell its shaking. Cor takes no action, simply standing by with his hand on its back. The sun burns. 

“You feeling any better?” he asks. 

“Yes,” NH-01987 answers, the taste of daemon blood still burning in its mouth and throat. 

“That’s good,” Cor says quietly. “You think you’re gonna puke any more?”

“No.” Cor sings wordlessly, a single vibration disrupting the otherwise still air. NH-01987 looks down at the gloves on its hands. It seems like the sunlight did away with the black stains, leaving the gloves in the condition Cor equipped them in.

“Let’s head back in, kid. We’ve made it past the Wall, so now we just gotta get into the city. You up for that?” NH-01987 nods and follows Cor back into the car. It is restrained once more, and Cor sits beside it, much closer than previously, his hand resting firmly on its knee. The driver clears his throat.

“So--” he begins, but is cut off by Cor. 

“Way out of your paygrade,” he reiterates. 

The car starts once more, and with every second the car gets closer and closer to large, stone walls that go on for as far as NH-01987’s eye can see. It wonders what experiment must be contained inside to warrant such security measures. Perhaps Cor is taking it to test its prowess against the experiment. NH-01987 knows it will fail. It always fails.

The closer they get to the wall, the more the car slows down. Looking out the front window, NH-01987 observes many other cars passing in front of its current transportation, all forming multiple lines to enter the stronghold. The car that NH-01987 is being transported in falls in line before a blockier, red car and proceeds through the line slowly. The car moves up to a security checkpoint, a man inside a square containment cell, and continues after the driver shows the security officer a card. NH-01987 wonders why he doesn’t just have his identification on his wrist, then remembers that only Magitek units need to be outfitted with their identification. Humans are responsible, and alive, and thus can be trusted with identification cards as opposed to barcodes. 

The car proceeds inside the fortress, revealing buildings that go on farther than NH-01987’s eyes can see. It is-- there are _so many_ , and they are all so tall. Lights flash from circles in boxes on poles, switching from red, to green, to yellow, and illuminating large boards. NH-01987 recognizes one such board as a sign for Cup Noodles, but before it can see anything other than the logo it changes, bright blue words against a black backdrop proclaiming, “ _Welcome to Insomnia!_ ” There are humans everywhere, more humans than NH-01987 has ever seen in its life. They walk on top of concrete floors that twist throughout the maze of buildings and across the black pavement that NH-01987 previously thought only cars occupied. 

Cor looks over at NH-01987, who pulls away from the window. “It’s big, huh?” NH-01987 nods, and presses itself back up against the glass to view the shifting colors and hoards of humans. The defect that caused it to expel daemon blood earlier has almost disappeared, but NH-01987’s body still vibrates just beneath its skin. It is a similar defect to the one NH-01987 experienced in the concrete building the previous night, one that leaves it feeling like every footstep is unsteady even though it is not walking. It remind NH-01987 of a physical test in which Magitek units had to scale a grooved wall, then walk across a narrow beam and return to the floor. NH-01987 had failed that test, gravity taking a hold of its body and pushing it off the beam, leaving it incapacitated for a week and with another demerit to its code. 

NH-01987’s body is drawn taught, but it releases the tension somewhat when Cor squeezes its knee lightly. It doesn’t hurt. Cor is-- Cor does not hurt. 

The car approaches a large, stone building that towers over the other buildings in its vicinity. It would take thousands of Magitek units working together to scale it, NH-01987 thinks. The car passes another security checkpoint with no issue, which makes NH-01987 happy. It doesn’t know what it could do if they were forced into combat, as it does not have any guns with which to fight. Shooting was another one of the few things unit 05953234 excelled in. 

The car pulls around the large keep, turning into an underground entrance. The driver stops in by a woman outside, then exits the car and tosses something NH-01987 cannot see to her. Cor looks at NH-01987. 

“You ready to meet the king, kid?”

“I do not know.” Cor pulls one side of his mouth up in a half-smile and places his hand on NH-01987’s head, rubbing it once more. 

“You’ll do fine. Regis’s a bleeding heart-- he’ll take one look at you and…”

“And?” NH-01987 questions. 

“Well, he’s got a kid about your age, so… he’ll like you.” NH-01987 nods.

“Yes,” NH-01987, unsure of what it is agreeing to. Cor lets a loud barking sound, and opens the door closest to him. NH-01987 remains in place until Cor opens the door to its right, only exiting when Cor tilts his head at an angle, signaling that NH-01987 is to follow. 

“Alright, stay close to me, kid. We don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. And keep those glasses secure.”

“Yes, Cor.” Cor frowns, his eyebrows drawn, but turns around and walks past his driver, who is still talking to the woman. Cor leads NH-01987 through a large stone corridor. There are other humans inside, all moving from one room to another, some holding important looking documents. One human, a youthful boy with blond hair, catches NH-01987’s eye. The boy is stopped by a door, holding a file in hand. He meets NH-01987’s eyes and frowns. NH-01987’s hands quickly move to the glasses, making sure they are held firmly in place. The boy adjusts his own clear glasses and goes back to looking at his file, frowning all the while. This makes NH-01987 unhappy; did it do something that displeased the boy? Perhaps eye-contact is considered rude-- _of course_. Other than Cor, the only humans NH-01987 ever had contact with were Commanders and medical personnel; it had to make eye-contact with them, that was a rule, but it must be the opposite for regular humans. The boy must have been unhappy because NH-01987, a Magitek unit, made eye-contact. NH-01987 quickly glances away, and notes that Cor is already far ahead of it. NH-01987 runs hurriedly. One of Cor’s only orders was to stay close, and it cannot manage even that. 

Cor stops ahead of NH-01987 and turns around. He has a small frown on his face, but extends his arm. NH-01987 places its hand in Cor’s, and the two continue down the busy hallway. NH-01987 still looks around, but thanks to Cor’s guidance manages to keep pace. 

Humans are so disorderly, NH-01987 thinks, looking at the unorganized masses of people, before reprimanding itself. Humans know better than functional Magitek units, let alone a defective one. Cor and NH-01987 enter a small room, and Cor presses a button. A few moments later, the doors to the room close and NH-01987 feels the ground move beneath its feet. It grabs one of the railings attached to the walls to steady itself, and only lets go once the doors reopen. Cor then leads it through long hallways and large rooms.

Cor stops in front of a large door, where two guards are stationed outside. There is another man talking to one of the guards. NH-01987 can only see the back of his head, and notes that his hair is shaved much like NH-01987’s own. It wonders if the man is part of this region’s military, as all of its previous Commanders shared the same haircut. 

Cor grunts loudly and the man turns around. His face is neutral, but when he sees Cor he gives a small smile.

“Clarus,” Cor says. 

“Cor,” the man says. “Who is that you have with you? I didn’t know you picked up strays.” 

Cor frowns, and NH-01987 moves closer to him. “That’s actually what I need to talk to His Highness about. See, I met with some complications.” The man is not smiling anymore. He says nothing, and instead opens the large doors and enters, holding the door open. Cor follows the man into the chamber, as does NH-01987. The room is large, larger than any of the previously visited rooms. NH-01987 thinks it might be larger than the facility’s training grounds. In the center and to the back of the room sits a man upon a red chair, surrounded by misshapen metallic pillars that arc over his head. To each of the man’s sides stand a guard. The man in the chair waves a hand at the guards, and they exit the room.

NH-01987 clutches Bobo closer to its chest, careful not to crush the chocobo in its firm grip. Bobo does not protest.

The man in the chair smiles. “It’s good to see you made it back safe and sound, Cor. Was the mission a success?” The shaven man moves and stands at the man in the chair’s side. His hands are placed behind his back at what NH-01987 recognizes to be attention.

Cor nods, frowning. “Met with some complications, but other than that the transfer went off without a hitch. I offered Commodore Highwind sanctuary, but she declined.”

“And how was Ms. Highwind?” the man in the chair asks. 

“Young,” Cor says. “Too young. Speaking of youth,” Cor says, stepping to the side and motioning for NH-01987 stand by him. 

The man in the chair’s smile does not change. “May I inquire as to why this young man is wearing such ridiculous clothing? I know your fashion sense is nonexistent, but even you must know that this is too much.” The shaven man exhales quickly through his nose.

Cor frowns. “The Nifs are experimenting on their children,” he says. His words silence the two other men in the room, who glance at each other, then at NH-01987. 

“I see,” the man in the chair says. He is not smiling anymore. “Does he have a name?”

“Numbers,” Cor replies.  
The man leans forward in his chair. “I beg your pardon?”

“They didn’t give him a name-- _fuck, Reggie_ \-- they gave him a serial code and a model number.” The man in the chair leans back once more, his eyes wide. NH-01987 observes that he is clenching the chair’s armrests so hard his knuckles turn white. 

“Clarus,” Cor says, “I’m gonna take the kid’s jacket and glasses off now, and I need you to stay calm. This kid-- he’s not a danger to any of us, I swear. The Crown comes first, and I would never do anything to put the king in unnecessary danger.”

The shaven man is still frowning. He nods, regardless. Cor kneels down in front of NH-01987 and removes the gloves first, then the jacket. Almost immediately, NH-01987 feels cool, but happy. Before it had been hot, so hot it perspired all on the inside of Cor’s jacket, but Cor does not seem to mind the stench of sweat. Cor reaches for the glasses, pauses, then removes them from NH-01987’s head. The shaven man swears loudly, and a sword appears i his hand in a flash of blue light. NH-01987 flinches, but Cor has already moved, arm outstretched in front of NH-01987’s chest. 

“Clarus,” he says. His voice is low and quiet, and the shaven man stays standing with his weapon drawn. Cor looks down at NH-01987.

“Are you going to hurt anyone in this room?” he asks.

“No, Cor,” NH-01987 responds. It has not been ordered to, so it won’t. Cor looks back at the shaven man. Cor nods and pulls his arm back, falling out of a defensive position. 

“How do we know the boy doesn’t lie?” the shaven man asks. NH-01987 looks up at Cor, whose eyebrows are drawn tight and mouth pulled downwards in a clear display of unhappiness. NH-01987 frowns.

“Because he’s seven fucking years old and was raised in a facility where he had to obey orders or get _decommissioned_ , Clarus.” For a few seconds, the shaven man does not move, but eventually does release his weapon, which fades into blue particles, and relaxes his stance. He opens his mouth to speak, but the man in the chair has risen and puts a hand in front of the other man’s chest. 

“A facility?” the man questions. 

“Yeah, some compound called the First Magitek Production Facility. They were-- the Nifs were-- _children_ , Regis, their kids. Those are their weapons.”

The man and the shaven man stiffen, the former’s eyes going wide and the latter taking a step backwards. 

“So what Commodore Highwind acquired was…” 

“This kid, yeah.” Cor answers the man. “Here, c’mere kid,” Cor says suddenly, kneeling down next to NH-01987. He points to the man previously in the chair. “That’s the King, but for now call him Regis, okay?” Cor then shifts his focus to the shaven man. “And that’s Clarus, he’s in charge of making sure Regis stays safe.”

“A guard?” NH-01987 questions.

“A guard,” Cor agrees. “Now, I need you to tell them your, uh, fuck, production and model number? Is that what they were called?” NH-01987 nods and turns to face Regis and Clarus. It relays the information, watching as both the men’s mouths form thin lines and as their eyebrows push down into their eyes. NH-01987 knows it has made them unhappy; it glances at Cor to see his face, but his expression has not changed. 

“Does the boy listen to everything you say?” Clarus asks.

“Yes,” Cor says, and Clarus narrows his eyes. 

“Everything?” he asks once more.

“ _Everything_ ,” Cor reiterates, “I wish he would disobey me, or something, but they fucked the kid up so bad that he thought I was going to-- _hell_ , Clarus, he thought I was going to kill him,  and all he did was cry, no struggling, no nothing.”

Clarus turns to Regis. “What do you propose we do with him? The boy does not appear to be an immediate threat, but there remains the possibility that he is a sleeper agent and has some sort of latent programming that could cause him to turn on us. Plus, there remains the fact that the boy is a _daemon_ , Marshal.”

“He’s not a daemon!” Cor shouts. NH-01987 flinches, and it holds Bobo closer to its chest. It thinks that if it holds the chocobo any tighter, he might suffocate, so it loosens its grip minutely. 

“That’s enough,” Regis says, and Cor and Clarus immediately relax their stances, though continue their looks of displeasure. “Clarus has made some good points, Cor, and it is entirely possible that you are too close to the situation. However, you do know what the boy is capable of best. I want to hear what Clarus thinks we should do with the boy first, then you.”

Clarus straightens his stance and looks at NH-01987 through narrowed eyes. It rubs its fingers through Bobo’s hair, as it cannot hold it any tighter without causing serious harm. “Regardless of what the boy started as, it’s clear to me that Niflheim has somehow started turning children into daemons. The boy should be treated as the threat he is, and put under constant surveillance. I don’t like it,” he says, staring at Cor, “but it’s what’s best for the crown. We can’t risk having some unknown threat walking among the citizens.”

“I’ve been with him for over a day, and the kid hasn’t made any attempt to hurt me. I slept next to him, and all he did was toss and turn. The kid isn’t a daemon. I know, his eyes are-- well, you can see, but he was able to get past the barrier, and all it did was make him puke out some of the daemon blood. That means his body’s working to get rid of all the shit the Nifs put in him, it means he has a chance to live as a regular human being.”

Clarus frowns. “Regardless of what the king decides, the boy will never live like a normal child. He was there for too long, and there are going to be long-lasting side-effects, psychological or otherwise.”

Regis cleared his throat. “I believe I have come to an acceptable decision. Cor,” he says, “I must consider this issue as a king, and the boy cannot be allowed out among the general populace, at least not yet. There are too many risk factors.” Cor nods, but still looks displeased. “However, locking him up is not the answer. Regardless of what may have been done to him, he is still just a boy, and the part of me that is a father cries out for the injustice of it all.” 

Clarus nods, and says quietly, “I know it isn’t fair, Cor, but--” Regis raises a hand. 

“I am not done yet, Clarus.” Clarus silences and nods, returning to attention. 

“We will have to schedule a session to assess the boy’s threat level, but he will remain in your care, Cor. It is clear he has grown attached to you, as you have him. Besides, who better to look after a Nif experiment than the Marshal himself?”

“Wait!” Cor exclaims, “Taking care of him for a day is one thing, but I don’t know how to raise a kid, especially one who was locked up doing who the hell knows what for seven years. I can barely babysit Gladio and Iris for a few hours.”

“Then don’t think of it as raising a child. You’re simply watching over a prisoner, though I am loathe to call the boy that. Either you take care of him, or he will be put in indefinite detention.” Cor appears unhappy, but remains silent. The other two men say nothing either, so NH-01987 risks punishment and asks Cor a question.

“Am I to remain by your side?”

Cor looks down at NH-01987, his expression becoming something less harsh. “Yeah, kid. You’re stuck with me.”

NH-01987 attempts to smile, pulling the corners of its lips up and baring its teeth. “That makes me happy.” Clarus makes a sound much like a bark into the crook of his arm. Regis is smiling too.

Cor reaches down and rubs NH-01987’s head. “Well, I guess that makes me happy too.” NH-01987 smiles once more, but this time it does not have to consciously pull up its mouth. It is-- dodging in training, something it does not control, but happens, but it feels warmer. Happier. 

* * *

A short amount of time later, Cor and NH-01987 depart from the large facility, the crowds of people having remained the same. Cor replaces the glasses and articles of clothing on NH-01987, so it returns to sweating profusely. Cor apologizes, but reminds NH-01987 that it is necessary. 

“Yes, Cor,” NH-01987 agrees. Cor then takes NH-01987 to a similar car to the one it had been transported in earlier. It is the same black color outside and inside. This time, however, Cor sits in the driver’s seat. He opens one of the back doors for NH-01987 to enter, then straps it in when it complies.

“Safety first,” he says. 

“Yes, Cor,” NH-01987 replies. Cor frowns, looking distinctly unhappy.

“You know, Cor is my name,” he explains, “not my rank, or what you should call me instead of sir. I mean, you should call me Cor, but not the same way you use sir. It’s kinda…”

“I do not understand.”

“Yeah, I don’t really either. But you can just say ‘yes’ without using my name. Oh well,” Cor says upon seeing NH-01987’s lack of comprehension, “we’ll work on it.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. Cor barks loudly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah who could forget dear sweet flame wow knowledge


	4. shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> understanding doesn't happen all at once, but NH-01987 is getting there. slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhh welcome back!! took a bit longer, partly because I didn't have a thousand word buffer and partly because this chapter is a monster. holy shit y'all. speaking of you guys, thank you so much for every comment, kudo, and bookmark. literally everything!! it's amazing how positively this fic has been received and just,,,,,, man. _man_. also, we're nearing the end of part 1 of this fic! by nearing the end, i mean there aren't as many plot points left but god is there a lot of fluff. there's a few more chapters. part 2 means the introduction of noctis and co and god am i excited for that. i can't believe i once that this fic would be five chapters. 
> 
> i do have one important thing to say about the update schedule. mainly, that there isn't one. i write about 300-400 words a day, and this chapter is like 7000 words long so... longer the chapter, longer the wait. i guess. 
> 
> also please let me say i love my wonderful friend [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori/pseuds/phori). she's the best.
> 
> this chapter (and all previous chapters) is subject to revision so,,,, yup! thank you again!

Cor takes NH-01987 back into the crowded maze of people and buildings, driving slowly behind other, more colorful cars. The ride is short. NH-01987 notes that it is definitely the shortest amount of time it has been in a car. Cor releases the restraint on NH-01987 after he stops outside a tall building. Compared to some of the other buildings it has seen, this one is close to the keep it was previously in, but it still feels very far away. NH-01987 tried to keep track of the amount of lengths of the training facility it would need to run to reach the destination from the keep, but lost track. This makes NH-01987 feel slightly unhappy, as it is normally very good at keeping track of distances, especially when it comes to shooting an object from far away.

Cor lifts NH-01987 out of the vehicle, then places it on the ground, but, once again, does not let go of its hand. He leads it through translucent doors that open when Cor presses his identification card against a rectangular box. The box has a circular orange light that turns green when Cor’s clearance is approved. Following Cor’s lead, NH-01987 transfers Bobo to under its left arm and pulls the right sleeve of the jacket back slightly, revealing its identification code. The building that towers above it provides ample shade, so NH-01987 does not think about the consequences of exposing its wrist to the sun. It presses the code up against the black box and frowns when the light remains orange. Cor looks back, his eyebrows pressed together and eyes slightly narrowed. 

“What are you doing, kid?” 

NH-01987 looks at him. “Attempting to enter, Cor.” NH-01987 presses the barcode to the scanner once more, then looks back at Cor. “It appears I do not have the required clearance level.” Cor’s face is blank, impassive. He opens his mouth, then closes it. 

“You don’t-- why your wrist?-- nevermind. Look, I have the required clearance so just, follow me, okay?”

“I am permitted to go into the restricted area?” 

“Yeah, yeah you are. I’ll-- _shit_ , should I get you a key?” Cor tilts his head down and sideways to better look at NH-01987. “ _Six,_ I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

NH-01987 frowns, but says, “Yes,” regardless. How can Cor not know how to perform adequately? He is-- Cor is a human, and humans are-- human, simply put. Humans know everything, and that’s why all Commanders are humans. Because Magitek units are-- not, they are lesser, built for battle and nothing else. NH-01987 isn’t allowed to be uncertain, but it is, constantly, and Cor is so much more, so how can he be uncertain? It is not-- is Cor defective? NH-01987 dismisses the thought the moment it crosses its mind. It must be defective for thinking there might even be the possibility that a human is defective. Humans cannot be defective, but Cor is not-- he does not know. He _does not know_ , and NH-01987 does not know, someone must know, and if it isn’t Cor, then--

NH-01987 is brought back to reality by a warm hand resting firmly on its shoulder. It realizes that its breathing had sped up again, much like the previous day by the lake. It had demonstrated to Cor very clearly its defect, and it knows he knows about it, but it still feels-- its heart beats hard and fast and it cannot stop the hurried breaths, and it is holding Bobo so, so tightly. 

“Hey, kid,” Cor says, kneeling down. “Breath with me, okay? In” he says, inhaling loudly, “and out,” he finishes exhaling at a similar noise level. “It’s all okay, you’re safe.” Cor repeats the pattern of exaggerated inhales and exhales, hand resting on top of NH-01987’s arm as it copies Cor. “That’s it. You feeling any better?”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says, its breathing having steadied. Its hands tremble slightly as it loosens its grip on Bobo. “I am better. I can still be of use, Cor.”

Cor’s eyebrows push themselves together and his mouth is pulled into a thin line. “I know, kid. You’re doing great. I just-- what caused your attack?”

“I did not attack anyone,” NH-01987 says, face devoid of any expression. It looks down at the top of the chocobo secured tightly in its arms. It is-- its heart is still beating fast, much too fast, too fast to be functional, and it is reminded vividly of when it first woke up in Cor’s arms. NH-01987 swallows, its mouth inexplicably dry given the amount of water it had ingested. “I didn’t, did I?” It looks to Cor for an affirmation to its words, an assurance that what it did was not wrong. But, what it did _was_ wrong, it showed its defects to Cor; clear enough that even he could identify them. 

“You didn’t attack anyone,” Cor says, and NH-01987 exhales, and it feels like a Commander has just taken their heavy boot off of NH-01987’s chest. It is-- happy, it did not harm. Cor told it not to hurt anyone. “No,” Cor continues, “by attack I meant, uh, panic attack? I’ve seen it happen to those in the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive before, I just…” Cor ends his sentence there, the words trailing off. “What caused it?”

NH-01987 wets its lips, running its fingers through Bobo’s light hair. “I do not understand. It was,” and NH-01987 is loathe to say the words, but it must, “a defect. I am-- defective, and unable to-- unable t-to--” NH-01987 cannot finish. The words are too final. Instead of finishing its sentence, NH-01987’s breath hitches in its chest, and it cannot breath once more. Tears fall down its face, staining the pavement below it.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Cor says immediately, firm arms encircling NH-01987. “It’s okay, you’re not defective, you’re everything you need to be and nothing less, okay?”

“But I am-- leaking, and my breathing is irregular, and--” NH-01987 says between pained gasps. 

It is interrupted by Cor. “That’s okay, kid. It’s okay to be afraid, and cry, and _fuck_ , I’m so sorry.” NH-01987 will never understand why Cor apologizes. “I just need to know what made you feel the way you do. Why did you start crying?”

NH-01987 attempts to halt the sobs, but it cannot. Were it still in the training facility, it would have been decommissioned. There is no question about it. It used to be so good about hiding its defects but now, only a day later, it is failing. Failure should not be accepted, but Cor does. Cor makes it feel warm. Happy. The happiness makes it start to feel like it is in a storage pod after a long day of training; it knows that, inside the pod, there will be no more tests, at least not for the day. And that feeling, the one that normally precedes sleep, where NH-01987 feels all of its muscles un-tense, that is what NH-01987 feels when it is around Cor. This must be what makes it so quick to show its defects.

Cor frowns. “Tell me what you’re thinking, kid.” It is an order, so NH-01987 must obey. Orders are what it knows, what it understands, more than Cor and the way he makes it feel.

NH-01987 wets its lips and looks down at the floor, avoiding Cor’s steady gaze. “I am-- I am thinking that you are confusing and I do not understand-- and you make it feel like it is okay to not understand, but that’s not right. Not understanding warrants decommissioning, but you said you didn’t know, but you’re a human and humans know everything, and if you, a human, don’t know something then who does?”

“Oh kid,” Cor says quietly. “What they taught at the facility? It’s not-- it’s not true. It’s okay if you don’t know things, and just because I’m-- I wasn’t made to be a Magitek soldier doesn’t mean I don’t have problems too. And kid? Whatever they told you back there, they’re wrong. You’re human too.”

“I’m-- human?” NH-01987 questions. It cannot be. Humans bleed red, and NH-01987 bleeds black-- NH-01987 remembers the conditioning-- and NH-01987 cannot stand in the sun, and humans can and it is clearly not human with its dark veins and red eyes and metal ports. It cannot be. But Cor can not be wrong, correct? So it is-- a dilemma. 

“Yes,” Cor says firmly, like he is giving an order. “You are human. They might’ve done some fucked up-- what _they_ did wasn’t human, you understand?-- they might have injected you with daemon blood and given you some extra additions but that doesn’t make you any less of a person.”

“I am an object,” NH-01987 says quietly, because it _needs_ Cor to understand. It cannot stand being treated so-- like it is a person, but Cor is saying it is a person so it is logical that he treats it as such. But he _has to_ \-- has to know, has to see what NH-01987 does, that it is made of numbers and wires and metal, not flesh and blood, not the same way he is. 

Cor moves so quickly NH-01987 barely sees him move. One moment, he is kneeling, and the next his hands are gripping NH-01987’s shoulders firmly. The grip is tight, and for a moment NH-01987 is reminded of Commanders, and the way they shook it when it failed, and corrected it, and locked it in the storage pod for days on end, no water, no sustenance, no nothing. But Cor is not a Commander-- this is a fact that has been made abundantly clear to NH-01987-- so it clears the thoughts from its head with a single gulp. It is still breathing much too fast, however.

“You are _not_ an object. You are a person, and even if you have some modifications that doesn’t make you any less human. How you were treated before is reprehensible, and you deserve so much better.”

“I do not--”

“You are a _person_ ” Cor says firmly. “You are human.”

NH-01987 starts crying and it (he?) feels its (his?) breathing begin to hitch, and its (his?) chest is being crushed, and it (he?) cannot stop the tears from flowing. The tears are large, and NH-01987 is letting loose large gasping noises with its (his?) breaths. 

“Oh kid,” Cor says quietly, and wraps his arms around NH-01987. Being engulfed in Cor’s warm arms, NH-01987 feels-- happy, it (he?) feels like it (he?) is lying down in the back of the car once more, cloth square draped over it (him?) but not in the way that made NH-01987 feel trapped. It is night, it is warm, and it is-- NH-01987 has heard the word ‘safe’ used before, in reference to areas where one takes cover while shooting, but it (he?) thinks the word might apply to the way Cor makes it (him?) feel. 

Safe. 

In between the gasps that should have marked NH-01987 as defective, NH-01987 says, “Am I-- _hic_ \-- am I allowed-- _hic--_ to be a ‘he’? A person?”

NH-01987 cannot see Cor’s face, so it (he?) has no idea what he is feeling as he says, “Of course you are. Hell, you could be a ‘she’ if you want to. Of course-- what else would you be?”

“Commanders and medical personnel referred to Magitek units as ‘it.’” The arms around NH-01987 tighten. He feels crushed for a moment, but Cor loosens his grip seconds later.  

“I’m so sorry,” Cor says once more.

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. 

 

* * *

 

Shortly after NH-01987’s revelation, Cor takes him into the tower with him, guiding him into another small room. NH-01987 feels the floor beneath him lurch and move, much as it did in the keep they previously visited. The room moves up, and stops at the designated floor. Cor leads NH-01987 out of the room and into a long hallway. There are many doors on both sides of the hall, parallel to each other. NH-01987 thinks that there must be a lot of humans in the building to justify so many rooms. He thinks of the disorganized mass of people in the keep, and nods minutely, staring at the doors. 

There are a lot of people. 

Cor takes NH-01987’s hand and leads him through the hallway, turning a corner and stopping in front of one of the doors. He takes out his identification card once more, and presses it to a black rectangle similar to the one outside. It releases a small ‘ _beep,_ ’ confirming Cor’s clearance. He opens the door and waits for NH-01987 to enter. 

NH-01987 glances at the scanner, then at Cor. 

“You don’t need to provide identification,” he explains, “You’re with me.” NH-01987 nods, and enters the room after Cor tilts his head towards the room in an effort to get NH-01987 to comply. He does. He was just unsure; he has never entered a room before a human-- person-- Commander-- Cor. NH-01987 searches for the proper modifier to describe Cor, but fails. Cor is just Cor.

Cor closes the door and enters, approaching NH-01987 who is standing in the hallway, unsure of where Cor wishes him to go. Cor removes the garments he previously bestowed upon NH-01987, taking the jacket, gloves, and glasses off of him. The room is cool, which makes NH-01987 happy. He feels like he is back in its storage pod, but the room is larger, which also makes NH-01987 happy. 

NH-01987 observes silently as Cor pulls strings that result in the windows-- and, subsequently, the sun-- being covered up. Once he obscured all the sunlight in the room, he turns to NH-01987.

“Uh, this is my home. It’s where I live-- like my facility, or...something. It’s where I sleep, and eat, and bathe, and take care of myself. And, uh, I guess it’s your home too.”

“Mine?” NH-01987 questions.

“Yeah, y’know, _mi casa es tu casa_ and all that. Oh, wait, you probably can’t understand that.” NH-01987 runs the foreign words through his databank. ‘My house is your house,’ is what it translates to, approximately. Even with the words in a language he can understand, NH-01987 cannot comprehend the meaning of the words.

“It means, uh, what’s mine is yours, so make yourself at home. Do you want to watch some TV? Or, uh, I could teach you how to make Cup Noodles.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says, recognizing some of the words. Perhaps learning to make Cup Noodles will prove beneficial, and Cor will view him as an asset. 

“Alright, Cup Noodles it is,” Cor says, and turns around to walk into a subcompartment of the room it is currently in. 

“Oh,” Cor says, “if you want to take your shoes off, go ahead and leave them by the front door. NH-01987 does so, removing its standard-commission boots. They are dark, and heavy, built to last in the snow, and several sizes too large for NH-01987. Magitek units are only given one pair of boots per every three years; as such, the boots are made for the unit’s projected size, not its current one. 

NH-01987 puts the boots down and returns to Cor. He is leaning over a table, his back facing NH-01987; if this were his training, he would be expected to take the opportunity to execute the kill shot. For a brief second, he moves forward, as if to go through with the execution, but he freezes. He will not-- he is not in the facility, he is with Cor, so he will not. That is not what he-- wants; finally, NH-01987 understands the word. He wants to stay with Cor, and if he keeps going back to the facility as a result of his defects, then he can not remain with him. Not if it he a-- danger, that’s what he is, to Cor.

“Something wrong, kid?” Cor asks, turning around. The adrenaline that had coursed through NH-01987’s body subsided, and he feels that he could finally drop his combat-ready stance. Cor’s face is-- rough, with scars and folds and skin much more tan than NH-01987 had ever thought a person could have. Cor is facing him, bright blue eyes staring into NH-01987’s own, and it is this show of affirmation that lets NH-01987 fully untense.  

“No,” NH-01987 says, moving to Cor’s side. Bobo sits in his hands, a reminder. Of what, NH-01987 does not know, but he reminds him of something important. NH-01987 shifts Bobo under his armpit and hesitantly reaches his free hand out and grabs Cor’s shirt, holding it loosely. 

Cor smiles slightly. “You need something?”

“No,” NH-09187 repeats. Just holding on to Cor’s shirt steadies him, makes him feel less like he is about to fall down into a bottomless pit he will never be able to climb back out of. Cor is solid, like the steel walls of the facility, but warmer. 

“Alright, if that’s the case, then let me show you how to make some Cup Noodles,” he says. “First, you get your cup of noodles,” Cor grabs the cylindrical container that NH-01987 knew contained sustenance, “Speaking of, what flavor do you want? I just gave you chicken before, but I have beef and shrimp if you want to try ‘em.”

“Flavor?” NH-01987 questions.

“Ah shit, sorry. Uh, flavor is like, damn, how do I describe flavor? It’s-- salty!”

“Flavor is salty?”

“No, well, yes, but no. Salty is a kind of flavor. There are other kinds of flavors too, like sweet, savory, bitter, sour… these words mean nothing to you, huh?” Cor says after observing NH-01987’s blank face. He removes his hand from his shirt and holds Bobo to its chest, shaking his head. He looks to the floor, too fearful to see the disappointment in Cor’s eyes.

“Sorry, I should have known better,” Cor says, no trace of anger or disappointment in his voice. “I’ll just give you some of the chicken one-- it is the best flavor after all.”

NH-01987 licks his lips and looks back up at Cor. He is unconcerned with NH-01987’s lack of comprehension. He untenses his shoulders, and releases Bobo from the death grip he was holding him in. NH-01987 inspects Bobo carefully, but there does not appear to be any lasting damage, which makes NH-01987 happy. He did not know what he would do if Bobo were to be injured.

Cor continues on, unconcerned by NH-01987’s worries. “So, after you have your cup of noodles, you gotta boil some water.” Cor shows NH-01987 a red, metal container with a half-dome shape with a cylinder protruding from one side. Cor pushes down on a lever, and the top of the cylinder flips open. Cor then puts the container in a dip in the countertop, and pushes another lever, resulting in water spewing from a tap. The water is poured into the container, which Cor then takes to a part of the countertop with a metal grate above four circles. He twists a dial, and flames erupt from one of the circles, causing NH-01987 to jump. 

“Oh, sorry,” Cor says as he places the container down on top of the ring of flames. “Well, now we have to wait for the water to boil. Here,” Cor says, walking over to a wooden table and pulling out a chair that has a green sack of some kind where one would sit, “you want to sit down?”

NH-01987 licks his lips. “Yes,” he says. He waits for Cor to sit in the chair he pulled out, but Cor does not. Cor is waiting for something, but NH-01987 does not know what. Does he want him to-- what _does_ he want him to do? NH-01987 cannot think of anything Cor might need in regards to assistance sitting down so what is it? What does Cor desire?

“You gonna sit down, or just keep standing there?” Cor asks. “Here, c’mon, the cushion’s not gonna hurt you.” Cor pats down on the cloth sack-- cushion? He’s beckoning NH-01987 closer. NH-01987 approaches hesitantly. He stares at the cushion intently. It is square and flat, with a single button in the middle, compressing it down. NH-01987 pauses, looks up at Cor who is staring right back at NH-01987, then back at the cushion. 

He sits.

NH-01987 looks back at Cor, who is smiling. Cor moves to the opposite end of the table, and pulls the chair out for himself. He sits himself in the chair and then drags it forward, resulting in a loud scraping sound that makes NH-01987 flinch.

“Sorry,” Cor says. “So… what do you think? Do you have any questions about,” Cor gestures to room around him, “any of this? You’re free to act and speak as you please, so long as those actions do not result in the immediate harm of other people.”

The orders are vaguely worded, but they are orders nevertheless. “Yes, Cor,” he says, then remembers his previous orders, “Yes.” 

“Yes to what?”

“The orders to not-- harm. Unless you are in immediate danger, I will not attack anyone.”

Cor tilts his head back and looks to the ceiling, exhaling harshly. “Alright, good enough, I guess. We’ll have to work on that.” He looks back to NH-01987. “You have any idea on what you want your name to be?”

“No,” NH-01987 says. Was he supposed to? Did he miss an order? His eyes widen and he grips Bobo lightly. The chocobo had been subject to NH-01987’s white-knuckled grip on previous occasions. NH-01987 did not want to cause the chocobo any undue distress. 

“Alright, no big deal. We’ll just have to work on that.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. He will strive to do better. He has to. For Cor.

“So, I know I asked earlier, but do you have any questions? You’ve looked really confused this whole time, so ask away.”

NH-01987 swallows and runs his hands through Bobo’s fur the same way Cor did to his hair, or what little was left of it. He has a lot of questions. One presses down on the front of NH-01987’s brain, begging that it be answered.

“What...” NH-01987, asks licking his lips momentarily, “what does Bobo feel like?”

“I’m sorry?” 

“I mean… he feels… like snow. Fresh snow, or what it looks like. O-or,” NH-01987 continues. He wants to stop talking, but he cannot, “like the big white things in the sky.”

“Clouds?”

“Clouds,” NH-01987 repeats quietly, testing the word in his mouth. The word is round, and sounds the way NH-01987 thinks clouds feel.

Cor is silent for a few moment, and NH-01987 worries that he offended him in some way. “When you ask what Bobo feels like, are you referring to his texture?”

“Texture?” 

“Um, so, texture describes how something feels. Which, I guess answers my question. Anyways, so the surface of this table,” Cor drags his hand across the table’s surface, “is smooth and hard. So, Bobo is the opposite of that.”

“What is the opposite?”

“Soft and fluffy.”

NH-01987 repeats the words out loud, looking down at Bobo. Soft. Fluffy. Bobo is soft. 

NH-01987 licks his lips. “Bobo is very soft. It makes me happy.”

Cor smiles, “I’m glad. And-- you should know-- if you have any questions, any at all, you won’t get in trouble for asking ‘em. You’re safe here.”

NH-01987 pulls his lips back and bares his teeth in what he hopes looks like a smile. Cor barks suddenly, and hunches over the table.

“H-holy shit, kid. We gotta work on that-- I’ve seen your real smile, you don’t have to smile when you don’t feel happy.”

“But I am happy.” 

Cor straightens his posture and looks at NH-01987 in the eyes. “Okay, well, you don’t have to force yourself to smile even if you are happy. You just gotta-- let it happen naturally. I’m not saying that smiling is bad, but if you don’t want to smile then you don’t have to.”

NH-01987 thinks he understands. When he consciously smiled, he upset Cor. Somehow, his conscious smile was different from his unconscious one. NH-01987 will have to work on making his conscious smile less upsetting to Cor. NH-01987 vows to himself that he will learn how to smile and make it look natural, no matter the situation.

NH-01987’s reverie is interrupted by a high-pitched squeal. He jumps in the chair and looks around, searching for the injured unit. Injured units need to be assessed immediately, so a Commander can determine whether or not they are worth salvaging.

“Woah, hey, don’t worry, kid,” Cor says. “It’s just the water boiling. You want to see?” NH-01987 nods. The noise is not-- he did not need to react the way he did. 

“Alright,” Cor says, standing up, “let’s teach you how to make some Cup Noodles.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. Cor takes NH-01987’s hand and leads him back into the subsection of the room where he left the half-dome container. NH-01987 looks to the container, and finds steam emerging from the cylindrical area. 

“So I just heated up the water,” Cor says, reaching for the screaming container. NH-01987 tenses, but the container does not harm Cor. “After you finish heating up the water, you have to pour it in the cups. Do you think you can pull back the top of the cups for me?” 

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. The instructions are vague, but there is a definite thing he must do. A ‘cup’ must be the container that Cup Noodles are provided in-- the not-quite cylindrical shape. NH-01987 grabs one of the cups, then looks to Cor for assurance. He nods, smiling. NH-01987 licks his lips and finds purchase on the top layer of the cup. There is a small flap on the edge thats purpose seems to be to provide a grip to remove the covering. NH-01987 slowly peels back the plastic cover, revealing a lump of dry lines and various other objects that NH-01987 can not identify.

NH-01987 looks to Cor and presents the cup. He peeled the cover back halfway-- is that enough? 

“Perfect,” Cor says. “Now, would you mind doing the other one?” 

NH-01987 nods, then pauses, confused by the odd phrasing of the question. He licks its lips and grabs the other cup, hoping Cor will understand that he does not ‘mind’ assisting him with cooking. It is-- knowing that he can be of use even with all of his defects makes NH-01987 very happy.

NH-01987 hands the cup to Cor moments later, the covering successfully peeled back. Cor smiles at him. 

“Alright, so once you’ve got your cups peeled and ready, you pour some hot water in.” Cor demonstrates by filling the cup with water. Steam rolls out of the top of the cup, and NH-01987 takes an unwilling step back. He remembers-- his chest aches. 

Cor finishes pouring the water into the cup and shows it to NH-01987. NH-01987 does not move back this time. He is prepared for the presentation. He stiffens regardless.

“See,” Cor says, hand firm around the cup, “you want to fill it enough that it covers everything, but not too full. If you fill it too full-- well, it’s just not any good. No one likes soggy noodles.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says, fighting to keep his body from taking another step back. Cor smiles, but it is only his mouth that is smiling, which confuses NH-01987. He knows very little about smiling-- knows that if he forces a smile it is upsetting, and knows it is an action performed primarily through the stretching of mouth muscles, but even though Cor has his mouth arced, he does not look happy. His eyes are-- the opposite of happy, but not angry. 

Cor brings the cup back towards the counter. NH-01987 leans forward, unaware he had been leaning away.

“Is there… what about the Cup Noodles made you do that, kid?” Cor inquires.

“I do not understand.”

“Recoil, flinch, uh, go away from the cup. What about it made you do that?”

NH-01987 licks his lips and looks down to Bobo in his arms. Bobo stares back, dark eyes meeting red. “It was-- the water.”

“What about the water?” Cor asks, peering into the cup. “You were fine drinking earlier.”

NH-01987 swallows. “The water-- it is-- hot. Burning.”

“Yeah, it’s hot but it won’t hurt you unless you spill it. Or, I guess, if I spilled it but--” Cor cuts himself off. His eyes have hardened. They are not soft anymore. 

When Cor speaks again, his voice is low, and hard. “Kid. Did anyone spill _boiling_ water on you on _purpose_?”

NH-01987 does not meet Cor’s eyes. “It was-- a correction, Cor.”

“ _Fuck,_ what the fuck? Who does that to a kid-- Six, I wish we’d destroyed that facility. Fuck. I’m-- oh shit, I’m sorry kid, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

NH-01987 blinks, pulling himself from the dimly lit metal halls he had found himself in, confused. Crying? He reaches a hand up to touch his face and-- _oh_. Moisture clings to his hands, and now that he is aware of it, it seems there is more coming. He cannot stop them.

Cor kneels down on the floor in front of NH-01987. “Hey, hey,  it’s okay, kid. I’m sorry I lost my temper, it’s just-- thinking about what they did to you in the facility makes me upset. Do you know what upset means?” NH-01987 nods. When Commanders are upset, they yell and correct underperforming Magitek units. NH-01987 does not want Cor to correct him, but if he does, he understands. His performance has been less than satisfactory. Bobo shakes in his hands.

“Apologies, Cor,” NH-01987 says. Cor extends his arms and encompasses NH-01987 in a warm embrace. His large hands grip NH-01987’s shoulders lightly, and his chest is pressed against NH-01987’s head. From this position, NH-01987 can hear the steady pounding of Cor’s heart. He closes his eyes and listens.

Bobo is pressed against NH-01987’s own chest, and he wonders if the chocobo is listening to his own heartbeat. He wonders how different his heartbeat sounds from Cor’s-- NH-01987 knows the sound of his heartbeat would be muffled if not completely silenced by the cold metal of the port installed above his heart. NH-01987 thinks that if Bobo can hear his heartbeat, he would like it if it it offers the same warmness to Bobo that Cor’s offers him. NH-01987 would like to find some way to repay the small bird for all he has done for him.

Cor’s hand touches NH-01987’s head lightly, rubbing small circles into it.

“Sorry, kid,” Cor says again, “I should’ve known better. I didn’t-- I wasn’t thinking, I was just angry. Not at you, please believe me, not at you, but what they did to you, because it’s not fair. It’s not fair that a good kid like you got your life stolen from you before you could even realize what a life should be. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The two stay like that for some time, the larger man embracing the smaller as NH-01987 leans into his touch. Cor disengages after some time, and looks at NH-01987, mouth drawn into a thin line.

“You think you’ll be okay now?” he asks.

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. He knows that is what Cor wants to hear; he thinks he is being truthful as well.

Cor smiles, but once again it is not a happy smile. It is not angry either. It is-- he looks how NH-01987 sometimes used to feel when it was resting in a storage pod but could not enter stasis; in the absolute blackness of the facility, there was a deep, pervasive sense that NH-01987 was alone, and that made him feel… well, how Cor looks.

Before he can stop himself, NH-01987 asks, “What is the emotion you are displaying?” Cor briefly squints his eyes and furrows his eyebrows, but after a second his eyes widen and mouth opens in a small ‘o’ as he tilts his head up and down slightly. Moments later, the unidentifiable emotion is back.

“It’s sadness, kid. It’s-- in some sense, it’s the opposite of happiness. It’s when you feel… fuck, I don’t know how to describe it.” NH-01987 briefly runs the word ‘sad’ through his database, but there are no results. He does not know how to describe it either. He shakes his head, conveying his answer. It is-- disappointing, he did not want to disappoint Cor.

“Yeah, I didn’t expect you to,” Cor says, rising from his kneeling position on the floor. He is staring intently at the wall. NH-01987 stares too; there must be something very important about the wall. “Tell you what,” Cor says, turning back to NH-01987, “tomorrow, I’ll run out and buy you a dictionary. I’d offer you my phone, but you could use that to contact Niflheim with that, and Clarus’d be mad at me if I let that happen.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. Cor barks once, then coughs into his hand. He clears his throat and turns back to the Cup Noodles.

“Well, you wanna finish learning how to make Cup Noodles? I know-- well, it’s been a long day, and you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but we’re almost finished.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says, with what he hopes looks like a smile. “I would like to learn how to make Cup Noodles.” Cor smiles, and as far as NH-01987 can tell, it is genuine. He does not think he would know how to identify a fake smile, but Cor’s looks real. 

“Alright, that’s great, kid.” Cor reaches down with a hand and rubs NH-01987’s head. “So, once you’ve poured your boiling water in, you’ll want to wait a few minutes, which we already kinda did, so huh. Just-- you wait a bit, and then you take some chopsticks,” Cor says, reaching into a drawer built into the side of the counter and frowns, “or I guess a fork’ll do. Sorry kid, I need to buy some-- well, it’s been years since I’ve had any chopsticks that weren’t disposable, and it looks like I’m all out of those. Next time I go to the store I’ll buy some and we’ll have Cup Noodles proper, okay?”

NH-01987 frowns. “Does the lack of ‘chopsticks’ detract from the effectiveness of Cup Noodles?”  
“The-- the effectiveness of what, kid?”

“The effectiveness,” NH-01987 reiterates. The Cup Noodles ability to do what it is required to do. “Do the Cup Noodles provide less energy when chopsticks are not used?”

Cor stares for a moment, and NH-01987 notices him mouthing the words, ‘less energy.’ “No, kid, it’s just… there’s nothing wrong with eating Cup Noodles with a fork, actually, that’s probably for the better ‘cause you’ve probably never used utensils before--” NH-01987 can confirm that, “--and forks are a little easier to use. It’s just, chopsticks are the way… I don’t know, kid, it’s all up to personal preference I suppose.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. “What does personal preference mean?”

“You know when you want something?” NH-01987 nods. “It’s the thing you want, or desire more than the other. So if chopsticks are my preference for eating Cup Noodles, that means I like using chopsticks more than forks.” NH-01987 nods once more; he thinks he is beginning to gain a grasp of Cor’s unusual language, though he knows there are still many more words that he will have to learn in order to truly understand what Cor is saying. NH-01987 thinks of the complexity that Cor displays in his language and actions, and then to the simplicity of Commanders and medical personnel. Those at the facility were much easier to understand-- all NH-01987 had to do was follow orders-- but NH-01987 knows he prefers Cor, even though at times it feels as though he is impossible to understand.

“So, the noodles have cooled off enough,” Cor says, distracting NH-01987 from his thoughts. “That means it’s time to eat. Here, go on ahead and bring these--” Cor hands NH-01987 the forks, “--to the table and I’ll bring over the noodles. Does that sound good?”

NH-01987 nods and ferries the forks to table as Cor instructed. He stays standing, waiting for Cor to meet him by the table to give him further instructions. Cor enters and places the cups of noodles down carefully, evidently trying not to spill any of the contents. 

“Sit down, kid.” NH-01987 complies wordlessly, pulling out the chair he was sitting in before and sitting down. Cor does the same. Once he is sitting down, Cor pushes one of the Cup Noodles so that it is sitting in front of NH-01987.

Cor holds the fork out in front of him. “Alright, so to use a fork, you just kinda stick it into whatever it is you want to eat.” Cor jabs the fork into his cup, impaling the contents within. He twirls it for a second, then lifts, revealing long strands of… something. Cor leans down and places the strands into his mouth, generating a small slurping noise as the strands disappear into his mouth. Cor moves his mouth around a bit, keeping his lips firmly closed, then swallows exaggeratedly. He looks at NH-01987 expectantly.

“I am… to eat the-- the strands?”

“Noodles, but yeah. Just do your best kid. I know you haven’t had solids before, but we need to start weaning you onto them, so if noodles are how we do it, then noodles are how we do it.” NH-01987 is confused, but nods. He grabs the fork, then looks to Cor, who nods. NH-01987 readjusts the fork so that he is holding it the way Cor was, and stabs it down into the cup. He repeats Cor’s movements from earlier and lifts the fork once more. Several noodles cling to it. NH-01987 bites his lip, looking to Cor once more.

Cor says, “Now you bring it to your mouth, like when you drink things? And you put in a little bit and separate that bite from the other noodles with your teeth. Then you, uh, gotta use your tongue and teeth to mash up the noodles enough that they’re soft enough to swallow, kinda like liquid.” NH-01987 nods. He brings up the fork to his mouth, placing within, and bites down. Immediately, sharp pain resonates through NH-01987’s teeth. He does not remove the fork from his mouth, however, and he bites down once more with less force. His teeth click against the metal of the fork, and NH-01987 pulls the fork out, allowing the noodles to slide off and rest in his mouth. NH-01987 places the fork down, and looks to Cor. Cor nods, and his mouth is tilted upwards in an almost smile.

“You’re doing great, kid.” NH-01987 nods, careful to keep his lips closed. He maneuvers the noodles around so that they are all sitting on top of his tongue, and presses his tongue upwards. This seems to have no effect, so NH-01987 moves to Cor’s other suggestion: using his teeth. He bites down slowly, the noodles compressing beneath the pressure. NH-01987 tries again after he moves the noodles around in his mouth a bit. Once again, the noodles compress, but this time they separate. NH-01987 repeats the process several times until the noodles in his mouth are the consistency of thick water. NH-01987 swallows, the noodles briefly obstructing his throat and airway before going down. 

NH-01987 looks to Cor. Cor nods. 

“You did good,” he says, “do you think you can eat any more?” NH-01987 freezes; he wants to say no, but Cor-- Cor obviously wants him to say yes, and he does not want to disappoint Cor. Cor is staring at him expectantly, and NH-01987’s stomach aches, not just from the noodles. There is a sharp pain starting in his stomach and working its way to his head, where it settles in his brain and pounds against his skull. 

Cor looks at him. “You can say no. I know-- it’s a lot to take in, in a day. Solids are-- well, we’ll work up to them, yeah? For now, you want to just drink the broth?” NH-01987 nods, the pain in his stomach having subsided somewhat; it is easier to agree to not do something than to actively disagree. His stomach still churns, much like the surface of the ocean back where they boarded the aquatic vehicle that took them away from the snowy plains. 

NH-01987 does his best to complete Cor’s order: sipping the warm liquid slowly and avoiding all the noodles and oddly shaped objects that float around in the cup. Cor eats his own Cup Noodles quickly, pulling up large clumps of noodles and ingesting them before NH-01987 can count how many there are. His computing systems were never the best.

The two finish in silence, NH-01987 holding onto the cup with no idea as to what he should do next. Cor reaches across the table and makes a grabbing motion with his hand. NH-01987 relinquishes the cup to him. Cor stands and returns to the room where he boiled the water, and deposits the cups into a large, metal can. 

Cor stretches his arms up over his head, his shoulders popping with the motion. He turns back to NH-01987. “So, uh, kid, we’re both pretty grimey, but it’s been a long day, yeah?” NH-01987 nods. “Yeah, so, I figure we can deal with hygiene in the morning and just sleep for now. Would you like that?” NH-01987 nods, then considers it. His body is sluggish, and he feels like he has just been through a long day of training. He truly would like to sleep. He looks around; hopefully Cor has a pod here for him to sleep in. Sleeping in the back of the car was different, and NH-01987 is not accustomed to change, though it feels like since Cor retrieved him, there has been nothing but. 

“Where are the pods?” he asks aloud after he does not spot any readily available storage pods. Cor tenses, his shoulders rising so that they sit around his ears. NH-01987 thinks that it is an odd look for a human, but Cor takes a deep breath and lowers his shoulders before NH-01987 can consider it any further.

“There’s-- there still aren’t any pods, kid. You’re gonna have to get used to sleeping on-- shit, where are you going to sleep?” NH-01987 does not know. He would like to. “Not the couch, that thing’s as old as Bahamut and just as uncomfortable to sleep on. And making you sleep on the floor would just be cruel…” Cor seems to considering his choices out loud. Perhaps, for humans, hearing one’s voice allows one to make better decisions. Perhaps NH-01987 will try that in the future.

Cor inhales and exhales exaggeratedly. “I guess… I guess you can sleep in my bed, at least until I get you one. There’s one condition, however.”

“Yes.” 

A exhales briefly through his nose, closing his eyes. He opens them once more to look at NH-01987. “You can’t tell anyone. I mean it! If anyone ever asks you where you slept, you say the couch, got it?” 

NH-01987 nods; he does not want to give misinformation to other humans, but Cor is… not his Commander, but his leader. He will follow Cor’s orders above all others.

Cor leads him to a separate room, in which there is a elevated, rectangular platform that sits in the middle. The room’s sole purpose seems to be to house the rectangular platform, as there is very little else inside the room other than two tables that sit next to either side of the platform. Cor pauses, then says quietly, “You’ve never used a bed before, huh.” NH-01987 shakes his head. Cor exhales forcefully, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Here, you think you can climb up onto it?” NH-01987 nods, and follows Cor’s instructions. The bed is slightly higher off the ground than NH-01987 can easily scale, but it is nothing compared to some of the training drills at the facility. Before he can begin his ascent, Cor says, “Wait a sec, I forgot something,” and moves over to the side NH-01987 was about to climb. He pulls back a cloth covering, much like the one he draped over NH-01987 in the car, and then pats the empty space. NH-01987 quickly scales the bed, and sits down where Cor gestured. 

He looks up to Cor for assurance. Cor says, “Lie down,” and NH-01987 complies. As NH-01987 lies down, Cor lifts the cloth covering and places it on top of NH-01987’s body. The weight is-- NH-01987 likes the weight. It is firm, grounding, and does not make him feel like he is suffocating. He is just-- warm. 

Cor sits down on the other side of the bed, next to where a light is turned on. He repeats the process with the cloth covering with himself, pulling it down then up and over himself. 

NH-01987 licks his lips. He wants to ask-- Cor said questions were okay. “What is the covering called?” 

“...It’s called a blanket.” NH-01987 turns the word over in his head. _Blanket_. NH-01987 likes blankets, especially when they are not smothering, overbearing, crushing him. When air is allowed to circulate and NH-01987 is able to move, then he is happy. Cor leans over and extinguishes the light.

“Wake me up if you need anything, kid.” 

NH-01987 knows he will not, but Cor’s soft assurance of safety makes NH-01987 feel happy. 

NH-01987 drifts into unconsciousness, a final thought drifting through his mind before his body succumbs to its exhaustion. 

_I am here_ , he thinks, Cor’s solid weight compressing the bed below, NH-01987’s ears being filled with the sound of his constant and steady breathing, Bobo pressed against his chest.

_I am here,_ he thinks, and smiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is lovingly called y'cab'f. you say it exactly how it sounds.
> 
> also me writing this fic is basically just, "does prompto know this word?"


	5. rinse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NH-01987 gets clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. *y'all*. thank you so much oh my god. this fic is... wow. you guys are the best. 
> 
> you know who is also the best?
> 
> [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori/pseuds/phori)

NH-01987 awakes to the feeling of a solid warmth being pressed against him. His eyes remain shut, but he starts. He takes a moment to even his breathing, Bobo, who is currently pressed tightly to his chest, assisting in the action. NH-01987 takes a moment and remembers where he is: with Cor. He is safe. The body next to him is Cor, and he is lying down because that is how humans rest, not because he is about to be subject to new installations or decommissioning. 

NH-01987 opens his eyes marginally; Cor’s broad back is the first thing he sees. Then, as he observes his surroundings, NH-01987 sees Bobo, still held against his chest. The room is dark; the only light present is a faint green glow from a rectangular object on the table at Cor’s side. The darkness offers no challenge for NH-01987; though his long-range distance is faulty, his night vision remains functional. NH-01987 examines the blanket currently pinning him down. It is brown, and thick. It presses down on him with a firm weight that warms NH-01987. At first, NH-01987 thinks the warmth is internal, as that has been the case in instances past. However, as time goes on, NH-01987 realizes that it is the blanket that is heating him up. He is-- hot, beyond warm, but not unbearably so. He will wait for Cor to issue further instructions.

Cor rises when a faint glimmer of light makes its way through the covered windows, snaking its way through the exposed cracks. NH-01987 sits up as Cor does, and mimics Cor’s stretches. Cor first raises his arms and extends them, resulting in a subtle cracking noise. He then twists his neck from side to side, which also creates the same cracking noise. Cor turns to look at NH-01987, and when comprehension does not immediately dawn in his eyes, NH-01987 tenses and holds Bobo close to his chest. Cor’s eyes are glassy, and his mouth hangs slightly open, but after a few moments he says, “Kid?” and NH-01987 nods. 

“How’d you sleep?” 

“Lying prone while closing my eyes,” NH-01987 responds. Cor stares at him for a moment longer before turning away and rising from the bed. NH-01987 exits as well, carefully removing the blanket from his person and returning it to the way it had been-- that is, lying flat on the bed’s large cushion.

“You’re up early,” Cor says, looking at the rectangular object that provided the green light NH-01987 had observed earlier. “You normally get up at six?” 

NH-01987 licks his lips. “Magitek units activate when they are told to activate.”

“And how long are the rest periods, normally?”

“Exact time is unknown. Rest periods can last from an hour to multiple months, depending on the unit’s condition and its demand.” 

Cor is silent, but says, “It’s way too early in the morning for this.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 agrees. Cor frowns, but says nothing. He moves to the side of the bed that NH-01987 previous occupied, and sits down on the cushion. He pats the space next to him, and NH-01987 complies with the implied order. Bobo sits in his lap, black eyes staring intently at the closed window. 

“So, you remember your orders?”

“Not to hurt anyone and-- and to--” NH-01987’s breath hitches in his chest. It has not been that long; how could he have forgotten already? 

“Well, yeah, basically that’s it. I have a few questions, though.” NH-01987 stares at Cor, eyes wide. He licks his lips. “Well, would you still obey that order even if I wasn’t directly supervising you?” 

NH-01987 blinks once, then twice. “Without question,” he answers. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now, I have to ask: would you obey your old Commander’s orders the same way?”

NH-01987 starts; he had not-- the Commanders were not-- he  _ has  _ to obey, but they gave him no orders other than short-term tasks. Commanders were not Cor with his vague instructions and long-term goals. Commanders were not Cor.

NH-01987 licks his lips and holds Bobo tight. “Yes,” he says quietly. It is-- Cor may say he is a person, but NH-01987 was conditioned to be a Magitek unit first and foremost, and Magitek units are built to obey. 

Cor sings wordlessly. “That’s what I figured. Alright, I just got a few more questions for you.” NH-01987 nods, and Cor asks, “Do you have any orders from previous Commanders?”

“No,” NH-01987 says.

“Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says, averting his gaze from Cor’s own. Cor does not feel warm currently; rather, NH-01987 feels as though he is back on the examination table, cold steel pressing against his exposed body as medical personnel poke and prod and question and add and rearrange and--

NH-01987 is distracted by a warm hand on his shoulder. He looks back at Cor, away from Bobo, and swallows discreetly. Cor’s eyes have softened, no longer resembling the cold walls NH-01987 is so familiar with. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I know… I know you got shit going on, but I need to know what I’m up against. I have to know that I can trust you.”

NH-01987’s eyes widen of their own accord, and the word, “No!” forces itself from his throat like an explosion. NH-01987 immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, attempting to prevent any further slip-ups; talking to a-- superior in such a way is not-- he should not have done that. One NH-01987 knows that no other words will force their ways out of his mouth, NH-01987 removes his hands and whispers, “Apologies.”

“Hey, it’s okay kid,” Cor says, squeezing NH-01987’s shoulder softly. “I’m actually kinda glad you said that-- it’s good to know you can vocalize your disagreement with some things. What part of what I said were you saying, ‘no,’ to?”

NH-01987 looks back to Bobo. It is easier to speak when he is not making direct eye-contact; units were always required to do so when speaking to Commanders, but it always made NH-01987’s heart beat hard in his chest, like someone was kicking him where his heart is repeatedly. Banging, banging, banging. That would inevitably result in NH-01987 mixing up his words and faltering in his reports, causing some corrections that he would not like to repeat. 

He is glad that Cor does not mind.

“That I am-- unable to be trusted. Cor’s-- your orders come first. I will not go against your orders.”

Cor looks down at him, eyebrows pushed into his eyes. “Even if a commander asks you to do something that goes against my orders?”

NH-01987 freezes momentarily, his entire body tensing. It would be-- disobedience but, no, Cor is a higher authority than Commanders, so it is not technically disobeying because he is obeying, just not the Commanders. 

“Cor’s orders will always come first,” NH-01987 says quietly. Cor still does not look happy with the information NH-01987 provided. He is-- there is something about his expression that reminds NH-01987 of sadness. 

“You’re really trying, huh,” Cor says, the question phrased as a statement. “I trust you, kid.”

NH-01987 shifts and looks at Cor, careful not to push Bobo from his lap. His eyes are wide; he wants to convey something to Cor-- his trustworthiness?-- but he doesn’t know what it is exactly that Cor needs to know. Cor barks once, then says, “You could kill a man with those puppy-dog eyes, kid.”

NH-01987 frowns. “I do not want to hurt a man. That would go against Cor’s-- your orders.” 

Cor barks once more, and keeps up the strange sound until eventually he says, “Yeah, I know kid.” He rubs NH-01987’s shoulder, “You’re one of the good ones,” he says. 

There is a question that presses against NH-01987’s mouth, and with there no longer being any danger of Cor deciding that NH-01987 is defective, NH-01987 asks, “What is that sound?”

“Hm?”

“The  _ ‘hah’ _ s.”

“That’s… that’s called laughter, kid. And when you produce laughter, you’re laughing.”

“What does it mean?” NH-01987 asks. 

“Hmm…” Cor sings wordlessly, “It’s like-- it’s something you do when you find something funny, or even sometimes when something’s not funny. It’s a way-- it represents a kind of happiness, but it’s something a little different.”

NH-01987 nods, and Cor exhales forcefully. “I really need to get you that dictionary, but before that, we’re both disgusting. Do you think you’ll be okay just, uh, waiting in the living room for me while I take a shower?” NH-01987 nods once more. Cor leads him into the room with a chair covered in cushions and says, “Alright, good. I’ll be right back; you can do whatever, just try not to break anything.” Cor leaves the room and NH-01987 is alone.

The room is quiet, the coverings on the window blocking out the sunlight except for small lines that sneak their way through. The quietness, the stillness reminds NH-01987 of the facility, but not. This room has the same empty quietness as the halls of the facility, except… except there is sunlight, not just the artificial lighting of fluorescent light bulbs. He hears the sound of water running, and no longer does the room resemble the facility at all. Cor is here. 

NH-01987 moves over to the window, where he can still see the faintest hint of light seeping through the covers themselves, not just the empty spaces. He sits next to a patch of light, close enough that he can touch it if he so chooses. There is a push that starts in his chest that then travels to his brain, and it tells to put his hand in the light. Just to see. Because-- because the daemon blood, at least from what NH-01987 can tell, is responsible for him burning and he expelled so much of it the previous day, so maybe-- maybe there might be a change? Maybe one day NH-01987 will be able to go outside like-- like a human. 

When he does put his hand into the light, it is less of a decision and more of an action. NH-01987 does not consciously decide to put his hand into the patch of light, he just does. His hand sits in the sun, tingling, but not burning, and Bobo sits next to NH-01987; he thinks that Bobo is to him the same way the walls are to the ceiling. Bobo holds him up, keeps him stable and safe. Bobo is the best at what he does, he thinks. The light is-- not warm, but almost. It is more warm than NH-01987 knows how to handle, but not hot. It does not make him unhappy; rather, despite the tingling sensation, it makes NH-01987 very happy to know that he can withstand the sun’s light. 

NH-01987 hears the sound of running water disappear, then hears several footsteps and bumps. He waits, sitting, with his hand in the sunlight. There are more bumps from the room Cor entered, but they subside after a few minutes. NH-01987 hears the sound of water running once more, then a repetitive ‘ch’ sound. While his vision is defective, his hearing remains up to standards. 

There is the sound of a door opening, and then footsteps. Cor is walking into the room NH-01987 occupies, saying, “I’ll have to get you a toothbrush. How about we go to store today and I’ll grab supplies for--” Cor cuts himself off and runs to where NH-01987 is sitting, yelling “What are you doing, kid!? Don’t--” Cor reaches down and pulls NH-01987’s hand out of the sun. His grip is tight, confining. Cor does not release his hand, so NH-01987 brings his free one and Bobo to his chest. His shoulders are near his ears, and NH-01987’s eyes are wide. He did not-- disobey, did he? Cor said not to hurt people, but-- was he hurting someone?

“Why were you doing that?” Cor’s voice is firm, but quieter than earlier and the pressure on NH-01987’s hand has lessened. NH-01987 bites his lip.

“Testing,” he says, his voice quiet, “testing a hypothesis.” 

“And what hypothesis was that?” Cor asks, his voice firm, cold, unyielding. 

“That-- that since the daemon blood was purged-- that since it had already been expelled, and since it is the reason for my sensitivity to sunlight-- since it is gone, then maybe I could stand the sunlight, like-- like a human.”

“Oh,” Cor says, and drops NH-01987’s hand, which he brings to his chest to wrap around Bobo. NH-01987 is back to chewing his lip and running his fingers through Bobo’s soft hair. “Did-- was there any difference?”

NH-01987 nods and says, “Pain was minimal, as the sunlight resulted in only a slight tingling sensation.”

“Huh,” Cor says. “Go figure. You said there wasn’t really any pain?”

“No,” NH-01987 says, head tilted downwards so that he can stare into Bobo’s dark eyes. 

“Huh,” Cor repeats. He sounds less like he is about to confine NH-01987 to his storage pod for an indeterminate period of time, and more like the scientists who would poke and prod and make strange noises as they examined NH-01987’s body and blood. “Well, kid, what do you say to a bath?”

“Bath?” NH-01987 questions. 

“Er, resting-- kinda-- in water to clean off all of the dirt and grime.”

“Oh,” NH-01987 says. “Are there not any spray-down stations?”

“You mean a shower?” 

“Shower?”

“Uh, a shower’s when the water sprays on you from overhead and you clean off like that,” Cor says after a momentary pause.

NH-01987 nods. Cor frowns, his mouth forming a straight line. “Alright, I know they didn’t just let you have a normal shower back in that hellhole.” He stares at NH-01987 as though waiting for an answer, but after a second of silence says, “I think you’ll like a bath.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. 

“You’ll have to leave the chocobo outside if you don’t want him to get ruined. You okay with that?” NH-01987 nods and holds Bobo out to Cor, who takes him, stands up, and places him on the table. Bobo tips slightly to the side without any support, and NH-01987 fights the urge to run forward and sit him straight up. Cor would not let Bobo come to any harm.

Cor extends his hand to NH-01987, who takes it without hesitation. Cor leads him through his house, and into a small room. The floor is cold, as it is no longer covered in the soft plush covering that extends throughout the rest of the house. NH-01987 recognizes it as tile. It forms a pattern that covers the entirety of the floor in the room, all overlapping squares. To the far side of the room is a hollow, rectangular basin with a tap and the device normally located in spray-down stations, except this one is smaller and attached to the faucet with a metallic rope. A small window sits above the basin, faint light filtering in. 

Cor leans over and tugs a handle, resulting in water falling from the tap. He holds his hand under the water for a few moments before adjusting the handle, then leans over and inserts a plug into the drain of the basin. He and NH-01987 sit in silence as water fills the basin. 

“So, uh,” Cor says, “you comfortable doing this by yourself or…?”

NH-01987 says nothing, instead looking to Cor for clues as to what ‘this’ may be. 

“Yeah, I figured,” he says, exhaling harshly. “You, uh, comfortable getting undressed?” NH-01987 nods and removes his clothes, starting with the shirt that Cor purchased at the building two days ago, and ending with the black bodysuit he obtained in the training facility. Cor looks NH-01987 over and grips the side of the basin, knuckles white. His face is-- he looks unhappy with his eyebrows drawn and jaw clenched. 

NH-01987 looks down at himself: there is nothing out of the ordinary. He looks back up at Cor, who makes a choking sound and asks, “What… what did they  _ do  _ to you?” NH-01987 cannot answer, so Cor continues, saying, “I knew… you said you had a feeding port or whatever, but kid. That’s-- you’re--  _ Six _ , how could we let this happen for so long?”

“Apologies,” NH-01987 says, biting his lip. He would like it if Bobo were here.

“No-- fuck-- don’t apologize. Urgh,” Cor says, his hand covering the bottom of his face, “just, what are they all for?”

“The ports?”

“Yeah.”

NH-01987 replicates the wordless song he has heard so many times before, points to the port above his heart, and says, “This is where daemon blood is injected.” He then points to the one located on the nape of his neck, “This is for data transfer.” He points to the one on his upper right bicep, “This is for nutrient injections.”

“I see,” Cor says, and moves his hand away from his face. It hovers over NH-01987’s shoulder before Cor moves it back to the side of the basin. Cor swallows, then says, “So, they injected daemon blood so much that they had to make a port for it?”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says, looking down at his chest. The port is metal and square, protruding slightly out of his chest. It must be-- it must make Cor unhappy to look at because it is not-- it goes against his views of NH-01987. He believes NH-01987 to be a human, and humans are-- different. They have no ports, nor any of the scar tissue that surround them, all silvery jagged lines that cover NH-01987’s body. He wonders if humans scar the same way.

Cor is silent for a long time. Eventually, he asks, “Did they give you anesthesia? Or something--  _ anything _ to help numb the pain or knock you out?”

“I do not understand.” NH-01987’s first instinct is to hide his lack of comprehension, but Cor said questions were okay, that it was okay if he did not understand. 

Cor frowns, and asks, his voice somewhat high, “Were you awake when they gave you those implants? Or-- did you feel everything when it happened?”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says, still confused. How else would they install upgrades? If he were in stasis, he would just wake up when they started the procedure. 

Cor lets out a sound that starts in his throat and never quite leaves it, a vibrating rumble. “I need a drink,” he says. NH-01987 glances at the water filling the basin, then back at Cor. The water should be suitable for drinking; perhaps humans require a different kind of water to drink? NH-01987 thinks back to the spray-down stations in the facility and how he would enter them after a full day of training. Magitek units were only allowed one shower per seven days, so it always made NH-01987 happy when his cleaning day arrived. The showers were-- the water pressure was high enough that the water felt like thousands of freezing needles digging into NH-01987’s skin, but he always felt better afterwards. Sometimes, he would open his mouth and catch some of the water inside. It was never explicitly stated that it was against the rules, so NH-01987 never stopped. As long as his cleaning sessions were exactly one minute thirty seconds, he would not receive any corrections. 

Cor notices NH-01987’s glance, and laughs once. “I don’t mean water, kid. See there’s this thing--” Cor cuts himself off and shakes his head, “I shouldn’t be explaining that to a kid. How old are you again? Eight?”

“I was commissioned seven years ago.”

“Hm. We’ll have to get you a birthday.” Cor looks over to the basin, and turns the lever. The water halts its flow and Cor looks at NH-01987 expectantly. “Do you want some help getting in?” Oh. NH-01987 understands now; he shakes his head and climbs into the basin. He enters the water slowly. He starts with his toe, testing the water. It is-- warm? It is not cold, and that makes NH-01987 happy. It is like but also completely unlike the cleaning he received back at the facility. He slides his entire body in, sitting down in the water and bringing his knees to his chest so that he fits. 

“Does the temperature feel good?” Cor asks. NH-01987 nods; he cannot imagine a body of water that could make NH-01987 feel any happier. It is even better than the fluid that filled storage pods, perhaps because this liquid did not fill his lungs and chest. “Good,” Cor says, then adds, “I’m gonna put some water over your head. You okay with that?” NH-01987 nods and Cor grabs a red cup that NH-01987 failed to notice previously. Cor scoops it into the clear water and slowly pours the water over NH-01987’s head. 

The water does not sting; when it makes contact with NH-01987, it just falls back off, leaving his face and hair damp. Cor repeats the process once more, and when he finishes he reaches over NH-01987’s head and grabs a small, cylindrical container. He pushes down on the top part of it that is slightly thinner than the rest of the container and upends it. A thick, clear substance pours into his hand. Cor places the bottle to his side, then turns back to NH-01987 and says, “Alright, you don’t have too much hair but a little shampoo never hurt anyone. Let me know if any gets in your eyes, alright?” NH-01987 does not nod this time, as Cor already has his hand on NH-01987’s head and is rubbing the liquid-- shampoo?-- into his hair. As it makes contact with the moisture already present in NH-01987’s hair, the shampoo turns thicker, but still light. Cor’s fingers are firm, but soft, and NH-01987 finds himself leaning into Cor’s touch. The feeling of contact is so foreign to NH-01987, but Cor is so free with it. It is different. Not bad, but different. 

“Your eyes closed?” Cor asks as he removes his hand. 

“Yes,” NH-01987 says, eyes pressed tightly together. He hears what he assumes to be Cor scooping so more water out; his suspicions are proven correct, as moments later Cor pours more warm water over NH-01987’s head. Then, he is back to rubbing his fingers on NH-01987’s scalp. The lingering shampoo washes off as Cor continues to pour water on NH-01987 until it is all gone. 

“Alright, you can open your eyes now.” NH-01987 does. The water he is sitting in is now discolored, and small white bubbles float on the surface of the water near the edges of the basin. Cor dips a small rag in the water, then removes it and reaches past NH-01987 to grab a white, rectangular bar. He rubs the bar into the cloth, then hands the cloth to NH-01987. 

“Uh, so this is a washcloth,” he says, holding gesturing to the cloth, “and this is soap. Can you take the washcloth and scrub your body with it? It’ll help you get clean.”

NH-01987 nods and takes the offered washcloth, and complies with Cor’s orders. The washcloth is not soft, but it is not so bad as to hurt NH-01987. When he rubs it against his skin, it leaves patches of red skin behind that fade after a few moments. NH-01987 observes this phenomenon, then flinches when he realizes he is not completing the task at hand. He resumes in scrubbing his body with the washcloth, and within a minute he has completed his task. He looks back to Cor for further instructions.

Cor takes the washcloth from NH-01987 and submerges it in the water once more, then takes it out and wrings it so that the water stored in the cloth is expelled. He puts it on top of the tap. NH-01987 thinks that is inefficient; it is more likely to fall back into the water if it is sitting directly above it. NH-01987 says nothing and simply watches as Cor plunges his hand into the warm water, and removes it once more with a plug in hand. A loud gurgling noise emerges from the basin, and NH-01987 attempts to fight the urge to flinch. He fails, splashing water against the edges of the basin. 

“Alright, stand up kid.” NH-01987 complies, water dripping off of him as he stands. Now that he is out of the water he feels cold, like he is back in the facility. The cool air assaults him, stabbing into his body. NH-01987 notes that his body is shaking slightly. It is a defect, but they do not appear to concern Cor. None of NH-01987’s defects thus far have upset Cor in any way, which NH-01987 still finds strange. 

Cor reaches over, a large cloth in hand. He wraps it around NH-01987’s shoulders so that it is draped over his body. The shaking subsides slightly. The cloth is warm.

“Here, you can step out now.” NH-01987 complies, careful not to remove the cloth from his shoulders. Soon, he is standing on a similar cloth that is located in front of the basin, presumably so the water currently dripping off of NH-01987 does not contaminate the floor. 

NH-01987 licks his lips. He knows what comes next. “Where are the drying stations?”  
“The what?”

“The-- the drying stations,” he repeats. “Where Magitek units--” NH-01987 pauses. Does he still count as a Magitek unit? Cor says he is a person, but Magitek units are not people. But NH-01987 was conditioned to be a Magitek unit, not a person, so what does that make him? He knows now that he is not an ‘it,’ that he is a ‘he.’ Regardless, there is still a part of him that screams at him that he does not deserve this, that Magitek units were built for one purpose and one purpose only: to serve, to obey.  

“Where you what?” Cor asks.

NH-01987 swallows. “Where we would dry off.”

Cor looks at the cloth secured firmly on NH-01987’s shoulders. “That’s what the towel’s for, kid.” NH-01987 examines the towel more closely; it seems inefficient. He does not understand how the towel would facilitate drying off. NH-01987 thinks of the drying stations and the cold air that blasted through them; with those, it only took about half of a minute for NH-01987 to be rid of any lingering water. 

“Look, here,” Cor says, and grabs the towel. “You just--” Cor is rubbing the towel across NH-01987’s skin, causing the towel to absorb the moisture. NH-01987 understands now, but still feels that drying stations would be more efficient. That seems to be the way with the way humans do things, NH-01987 thinks to himself. They are less efficient but… 

Cor covers NH-01987’s head with the towel and starts rubbing there. The darkness is-- being unable to see makes NH-01987 unhappy, but the towel is removed after a few moments.

“There, see?” Cor says, taking the towel. “All dry. You wanna put your clothes back on or do you need help?” 

“I do not require any assistance,” NH-01987 says. He grabs the black bodysuit, which causes Cor to frown, but he does not say anything until NH-01987 has put it back on. Cor grabs the shirt he purchased two days ago and holds it up so the text is facing him. He reads it, and frowns. 

“We really need to get you some new clothes.”

“Yes.”

Cor leads NH-01987 out of the bathroom after taking the towel and hanging it up on a rack. Cor leads NH-01987 to a cushioned chair, then leaves. He returns moments later, Bobo in hand, which he gives to NH-01987. NH-01987 accepts him without hesitation; the bath was nice, but Bobo wasn’t there. NH-01987 likes it when Bobo is with him. 

Cor sits down on the cushioned chair, then pats the cushion he is not occupying. NH-01987 complies and sits down next to Cor. Cor reaches over to the wooden table, which has various objects lying on top, grabbing a black rectangular object. There are four flat, circular objects that are littered across the table. The one closest to Cor has what appears to be circular water stain. Perhaps the circles are for placing containers that hold water or other liquids-- perhaps cups? Besides the circular objects are what look like thin instruction manuals. All have bright colors on their covers; the one closest to NH-01987 has the word, “ _ Scandal!!!” _ written in bright pink. NH-01987 is entranced by the pictures of humans on the cover, but he gets the impression that if he looks of the covers of the strange instruction manuals for too long, he will damage his eyes, so he looks down at Bobo instead. 

Cor fiddles with the object he picked up, grumbling under his breath. After a minute of him pushing a red button, the flat screen at the other end of the room turns on. NH-01987 jumps where he is sitting and holds Bobo close. Now that the screen is turned on, indecipherable noises fill the room. Cor mutters under his breath and presses a different button, and the noise subsides. 

“What do you wanna watch?” he asks. NH-01987 remains silent until Cor says, “Ohhhh. This is a TV-- sorry, television. It broadcasts different shows and stuff.”  
“Like announcements?”

“Um, yeah, the news is kinda like announcements, but most people use it for entertainment. There are tons of different kinds of shows, like sports, or reality TV, or nature documentaries. What do you want?”

NH-01987 licks his lips. “Um,” he says, mimicking the noise he has heard Cor make when he is indecisive. “I do not know.”

“Hmm,” Cor sings wordlessly, “how about some reality TV? That’s easy-- not too much to understand, if you get what I mean.”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. He does not get what Cor means. He holds Bobo close to his chest, while keeping his eyes firmly locked on the television. The screen is not broadcasting anything NH-01987 is familiar with-- namely, instructions or the results of a training exercise. Instead, there are humans of all shapes and colors yelling at each other, which makes NH-01987 confused. He thought only Commanders yelled at Magitek units, not humans at each other. NH-01987 shifts slightly in the chair, mouth pulled slightly down. He grabs at Bobo’s soft hair and listens closely to the television. 

“ _\--saw you hangin’ out with Cassia the other day--_ ”

“ _M-merga! It’s not what you think--_ ”

“ _I won’t hesitate, bi--_ ” The screen abruptly changes. NH-01987 looks over at Cor, who is holding the black rectangle once more. 

“Maybe not that one,” he says. 

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. 

“What do you want to watch? Like, I know you don’t know-- we just went through this-- but is there anything you like… to see? Or hear? Something?”

NH-01987 licks his lips. He wants-- he wants Cor to be happy. What if his choice makes Cor unhappy? But what if by _not_ choosing he makes Cor unhappy? His grip on Bobo tightens ever so slightly, and he makes a decision. Cor asked, so--

“I like it when humans do not yell at each other,” NH-01987 says, hunched over. He can not see what Cor is doing, but he hears movement. 

“Yeah, I understand,” Cor says. “You’ve… you’ve probably had enough yelling for a lifetime, huh?”

Uncertain of how to respond, NH-01987 says, “Yes.”

Cor sings wordlessly, then presses some buttons on the black rectangular object. NH-01987 returns to a normal sitting position: back straight, and feet flat.

“How about the Cooking Channel?” Cor asks. “That’s relaxing, and if I’m being honest I really need to learn how to cook. Speaking of, just tell me when you get hungry, okay?”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. The screen of the television switches to a single woman with dark skin and warm eyes. When she speaks, her voice is deep, but it makes NH-01987 happy. Cor puts his arm around NH-01987’s shoulders and draws him close. NH-01987’s head rests on Cor’s chest.

Cor is entranced by the television, but to NH-01987 it is but background noise as he listens to the steady beat of Cor’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cor: how do care for child?  
> cor: ah yes. cooking channel asmr
> 
> i'm contractually obligated to state that in a previous chapter, the line break was denoted by " **REMEMBER THE LINE BREAK YOU STUPID BITCH HR** " in the doc. so.


	6. communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> people are met, words are exchanged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hrrgh. i've had this chapter ready for so long that i'm almost done with the next one, so like, yeehaw i guess. sorry you guys! also, can i just fucking say i can't this has hit 300 kudos? it means the world to me, so thank you. honestly and truly, thank you.
> 
> also thanks [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori/pseuds/phori) i love you
> 
> fuck italics fuck formatting i hate this but i love it

NH-01987 is not entirely certain when, but after Cor changed the display on the television to the Cooking Channel, NH-01987 had fallen asleep. He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later, to the sound of loud chimes. He jolts, searching for the cause of the noise. Cor reaches into his pockets, and after a few moments of unsuccessful searching, Cor looks over at the table and grabs an illuminated rectangular object. The screen on it displays the words ‘ _Monica Elshett calling…_ ’ with a green circle and a red circle underneath. Cor presses the green button and holds it up to his ear. A voice emanates from the rectangle that NH-01987 cannot initially hear, so he enhances his hearing.

“ _\--true, Marshal? _”__

____

“Is what true, Monica?”

“ _That you found a Niflheimian experiment and decided to keep it? _”__

____

Oh. They are talking about him. 

“Yeah, it’s true but he’s not just a Nif experiment, Monica. And he’s not an ‘it.’”

“ _> ‘He’?_” the woman’s voice questions.

“Yes, ‘ _> he_,’ dammit. I already had this conversation with the kid-- I don’t feel like repeating it with you.”

“ _I was under the impression that it-- he was simply a weapon._ ”

“What? Fuck no, I didn’t just steal a gun from the Nifs and decide to keep it. He’s a kid, like seven?--” Cor looks to NH-01987, who nods. He was commissioned seven years ago. “--years old. Besides, I already had this conversation with the King and Clarus, I don’t need to have it with you.”

There is a brief moment of silence, then, “ _Do you have any idea how to raise a child?_ ”  
Cor snorts, “What do you think?”

More silence, then, “ _I’ll be right over. What does he like to eat?_ ”

“Wait, what? Monica, I didn’t--”

“ _You didn’t do anything. Just tell me what the kid likes and I’ll bring it over because I know what your cupboards look like.”_

“Uh, Cup Noodles?”

Silence, and a harsh exhale from the woman on the other side of the communications device. “ _Has he eaten anything other than Cup Noodles for the past couple of days?_ ”

“I got him broth at the port in Nif-- wait, I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“ _> You absolutely do if you want help with the kid. So, _Marshal _, why just soup and possibly the most sodium-filled food known to mankind?”_

Cor exhales. “Because he’s never eaten before-- nothing other than water. So, I had to start small. Ramen’s easy to get and he managed to keep it down for the most part. Hell, last night he finally managed to keep some of the actual noodles down and not just broth so that’s why,” Cor trails off. “That’s why.”

_“I see_ ,” the woman says. “ _I’ll be over with some chicken noodle soup.”_

“You don’t have to,” Cor says. 

“ _Obviously. Just… let me help you, okay?”_

Cor rests his hand on NH-01987’s head. “Alright.” Cor puts the communications device back down on the table and turns to NH-01987. “So, uh,” he says, removing his hand from NH-01987’s head to scratch the back of his head, “that was Monica. She’s a-- coworker of mine. She’s gonna come over with some breakfast, does that sound good?”

“What is ‘breakfast’?” NH-01987 questions. 

Cor’s hand abruptly drops and both hang stiffly at his sides. “Breakfast is, uh, a meal-- food, that is, that you eat in the morning.”

“What time periods constitute ‘in the morning’?”

“Hm, I’ll say five-- er, 0500 hours to 1100 hours, but really it depends on who you are.”

“I understand,” NH-01987 says, clutching Bobo ever tighter. He-- what does it mean to depend ‘on who you are’? Does the definition vary by human? Or some other defining trait? It would make NH-01987 happy to know the answer, but he knows he has asked enough questions for one session. Cor was trying to tell him something, and he interrupted with his irrelevant questions. NH-01987 realizes he did not give a proper answer to Cor’s question, and it feels as though his heart skips a beat. 

“It sounds good!” he exclaims, eyes wide and heart pounding in his chest. 

“What?”

“The-- breakfast. It sounds-- good? That is what you asked.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Cor remains silent other than those two words. Cor then sits on the cushioned seat once more and puts his head in his hands. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to introduce you to Monica and Dustin until later but… Monica’s nice, you’ll like her.”

“Yes.”

Cor laughs breathily into his hands. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You know,” he says, “you can… I dunno, say no, or even if you want to say yes, just say yeah or something. I only use yes when on duty, and you aren’t military.”

NH-01987 opens his mouth to contradict Cor’s statement, but then remembers Cor’s adverse reaction to its previous mentions of being a Magitek unit. He stays quiet.

“You want to watch some more Cooking Channel?”

NH-01987 nods. 

“You sure?”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says, then flinches when he realizes he didn’t say ‘yeah’ instead of ‘yes.’ He corrects himself hurriedly and Cor smiles. 

“That’s more like it,” Cor says, and turns back to the television. 

 

* * *

 

For the second time that morning, the television is interrupted by a noise. However, this time it appears to be light knocking coming from the door that Cor and NH-01987 initially entered in, not from Cor’s small communications device. Whoever is knocking knocked only twice, then went silent. Cor rises from his place on the cushioned chair and stretches briefly before walking to the door and opening it. His lack of haste while walking to answer the summons makes NH-01987’s heart feel like it is trying to claw its way out of his chest and into the back of his throat. He can taste the bile. He does not want Cor to get in trouble for tardiness, but then again, he thinks, Cor is in command. Only the man in the chair-- Regis, NH-01987 recalls-- ranks above him so far as he can tell. 

Cor opens the door. “Monica,” he says. 

“Marshal,” the woman says. 

“We’re off duty,” Cor says, “you don’t have to call me that.”

“I am aware.” Cor shakes his head and steps away from the door, revealing the woman to NH-01987. She is of average size for a woman, and is carrying a clear container of something that appears blurry, much like the woman’s face, to NH-01987’s defective eyes. She does not appear to be an immediate threat. The woman turns to and looks at him, and NH-01987 tenses and tries to take cover behind the back of the cushioned seat. Bobo is pressed firmly to his chest, arms surrounding the chocobo so that he will not take any damage should the woman prove hostile. 

“So that’s him?” he hears the woman ask.

“Yeah, Cor answers. “Here, come inside.” NH-01987 hears footsteps and presumes it to be the woman complying with Cor’s orders. Perhaps he is her superior? 

“What’s his name?”  
“He doesn’t have one,” Cor answers. “Look, why don’t you come over and meet him? I’ll just need a moment to make sure he won’t freak out or something.”

“Very well,” the woman says, and NH-01987 hears a loud screeching sound. He hunches over, but when no immediate harm comes, he uncurls himself and returns to a sitting position so he can face Cor properly. 

“Hey, uh, kid?” 

“Yes, Cor?”

“Six, I thought we were over that. Anyways, uh, Monica is here. She’s the woman I was talking to on the phone. She brought some food over-- it’ll probably taste better than the Cup Noodles. You wanna meet her and eat?”

NH-01987 bites his lip and moves it side to side beneath his teeth. “Ye-- ah,” he says. 

“Alright then, come on over to the table and I’ll introduce you. Bobo can come too.”

NH-01987 nods and takes Cor’s offered hand, which Cor uses to lift NH-01987 onto his feet. Bobo is held loosely in NH-01987’s unoccupied hand.

Cor leads NH-01987 over to the table where Monica is sitting. She rises when she sees NH-01987, like a unit would when it-- he-- they would see a Commander. She smiles at NH-01987, bending down slightly so that she is at eye-level with him. The smile is small, and does not fill her face entirely, but it seems real. NH-01987 smiles back, stretching his lips tight and baring his teeth. 

Monica’s eyes widen and Cor coughs into his hand. Monica shakes her head once, and offers her hand. NH-01987 stares at it for a moment, then looks to Cor. What could she require from NH-01987? He hopes it is not Bobo; Bobo makes him very happy and it would-- NH-01987’s chest tightens at the thought of relinquishing him. 

“It’s a handshake,” Cor explains. “People do it when they meet each other for the first time. You just put your hand in hers and she’ll show you the rest.”

NH-01987 nods, and places his unoccupied hand in her own. Monica tightens her grip on NH-01987’s hand slightly, an action that NH-01987 duplicates dutifully. She then brings his hand up once, then back down, and releases it. NH-01987 licks his lips, his eyes darting to Cor, then locking onto Bobo. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Monica says. 

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. Cor wants him to say ‘yeah,’ but Monica is not Cor, and is Monica his superior? Uncertain, NH-01987 tacks on an additional, “ma’am,” to his affirmation. 

Monica stands straight and says to Cor, “He’s very polite.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to get him to stop doing that sort of stuff.”

Monica raises an eyebrow. “You are trying to stop a young boy from using his manners?”

“They aren’t manners,” Cor says, and his voice is flat, emotionless. NH-01987 still does not completely understand human emotions, but even he knows that Cor is not happy. 

“So they aren’t,” Monica acquiesces and looks to NH-01987 once more. “I brought some soup; Cor tells me you’ve only had Cup Ramen and a vendor’s broth. Would you like to try something homemade?”  
NH-01987 nods; he would like to ask what ‘homemade’ means, but it is not simply him, Bobo, and Cor anymore. It is him and Cor and Monica and Bobo. 

Cor frowns, but says nothing. Monica ignores Cor’s distress and sits down once more in the seat NH-01987 assumes she was previously sitting in. He notes, somewhat belatedly, that the seat is not the one that he sat in last night.

“Is the soup still warm?” he asks. 

“I came over as soon as I finished, so I’d assume so, yes.” 

“I’ll get some bowls,” Cor says, and walks into the room wherein he boiled water the previous night. NH-01987 moves to follow him, but Cor tells him, “Don’t worry, kid, I’ve got this covered. You should sit down and keep Monica company.” NH-01987 licks his lips, nods, and follows the instructions he understands. He sits down in the chair that he occupied the previous night. It is situated across from Monica, who stares intently at NH-01987. She is acting like she is not, eyes darting away every few seconds, but NH-01987 is used to being observed. 

“So,” Monica begins, giving up the pretense of disinterest, “what’s your name?”  
“I am Magitek unit 05953234, model NH-01987, ma’am,” he says, then thinks for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing together, “but Cor calls me ‘kid.’”

Monica swallows. “I see.” She glances at Bobo. “Does the chocobo have a name?”

“Yes, ma’am,” NH-01987 answers. The resulting silence makes him shift in the chair for a moment, but he stops himself. Failure to remain still will result in correction.

“What’s its name?” Why did she-- Bobo is-- Magitek units are _its_ , not chocobos, so why--?

“ _His_ name is Bobo,” NH-01987 answers quickly, then sinks into the chair. He just-- Monica is-- belatedly, NH-01987 realizes his mistake and adds a quick, “ma’am,” to his outburst. 

Monica smiles, eyes warm. She does not look-- displeased with NH-01987’s performance. “That’s a good name. It suits him.”

NH-01987 swallows, then licks his lips and says, “Yeah.”

Before Monica can say anything else, Cor reenters the room, small white bowls in one hand, and metallic objects that resemble forks, but rounder, in the other. NH-01987 stares, avoiding looking at Monica, as Cor places the bowls and not-forks on the table. Cor keeps one not-fork in hand and turns to NH-01987.

“This is a spoon,” he says, holding it out. NH-01987 nods. Cor then places the spoon down in front of NH-01987.

Monica, from across the table, removes the covering from the container. Steam rises from the liquid contents, twisting and turning like ropes in the wind. A smell hits NH-01987’s nose and his eyes widen; it is like the smell of Cup Noodles, but completely different-- it is better, _more_. The smell alone makes NH-01987’s stomach cry out, indicating that he is in need of nutrients. Cor takes the container from Monica and pours the contents into a bowl, which he then sets in front of NH-01987. He repeats the process two more times and places the filled bowls in front of Monica and himself. 

NH-01987 looks down at the bowl that was placed in front of him. The liquid inside is a murky yellow, much like the solution that Cup Noodles float in. However, this solution is less bright. There are chunks of unidentifiable objects floating inside. NH-01987 swallows.

“Is this to be consumed?” he asks Cor.

From across the table, NH-01987 sees Monica raise her eyebrows and frown slightly. NH-01987 does his best to appear smaller, less like a target.

“Yeah, kid. You eat it, just like noodles.”

Monica nods. “I put some carrots and potatoes in as well as noodles. I hope that won’t cause too much trouble.”

“Nah, kid ate some noodles last night. He needs to get used to solid foods-- I can’t keep feeding him chicken broth for the rest of his life.” 

“You plan to keep him?”

“He’s not a cat, Monica, it’s not that easy. But… I guess I do. Might fuck him up along the way, but--”

“Cor!” Monica exclaims, and NH-01987 flinches, leaning back. Bobo sits precariously upon his lap. “He’s just a kid-- you shouldn’t swear in front of him!”

“Oh, shit-- shoot, you’re right. I didn’t-- _fuck_ \-- argh.” 

Monica coughs into her hand, though NH-01987 thinks he can hear a faint laugh beneath. “The soup is getting cold,” she says. 

“Ah, yes,” Cor says, shifting in his chair. His face is not its normal tanned color, as everything from the bottom of his cheeks to the tips of his ears have a light pink hue. Cor looks to NH-01987 and says, “Soup’s a lot like Cup Noodles, but a little better for you. Probably tastes a bit better too, honestly.”

NH-01987 nods, and lifts the bowl up to his mouth to ingest the soup, but before he can Cor says, “Wait!”

NH-01987 looks at him and places the bowl back on the table. He is careful not to let his shaking hands spill any of the precious liquid. 

“You don’t have to-- uh, lift it up like that. That’s what the spoon’s for. You use it kind of like a shovel-- here,” Cor says, and demonstrates with his soup and spoon. NH-01987 watches his motions carefully and repeats them: place the spoon in the soup, keep lift it out and keep it level so as not to spill, and then lift it up and swallow. When NH-01987 had dipped his spoon in, he made sure to avoid the floating noodles and various other food items. The solution component of the soup is easy.

“Do you like it?” Monica asks.

NH-01987 nods, then pauses, considering the question. He takes another spoonful of soup, and focuses on the flavor of it in his mouth. It is warm, but not scalding; salty, but not overly so. When he swallows, NH-01987 can feel the liquid travelling down, into his stomach, by the rush of warmth that emanates from its position. It is-- NH-01987 likes it, so he says, “Yeah.”

Monica smiles, and when NH-01987 smiles back, he does not think it is forced.

 

* * *

 

After finishing consuming the soup, Cor, Monica and NH-01987 return to the room with the television. Cor presses a button on the rectangular object so the screen lights up once more, and the sits on the padded seat. Monica sits down in a similar padded seat to Cor’s right; however, this one appears to be suited for only a single person. NH-01987 stands for a few moments until Cor pats the seat next to him. NH-01987 complies, sitting down next to the man. NH-01987 watches the people displayed on the television’s screen. NH-01987 can not put it into words what exactly it is they are doing, but it is-- it is beyond his comprehension. It is like when he and Cor made the Cup Noodles, but there is so much more to it. The people on the screen start with fine powders and liquids, and end up with things that NH-01987 thinks must be food, but he can not be sure. 

“Cooking Channel?” Monica asks. Cor raises one shoulder, then drops it. 

“Can’t just make him ramen for the rest of his life,” Cor says, “so Cooking Channel it is.”  
“Do you have any ingredients?”

Cor shakes his head and exhales. “Nah. I need to do a grocery run, but then I’d have to leave the kid alone and I don’t want to have to do that to him. Plus, Clarus would probably ride my ass about it later.”

“I wouldn’t mind staying with him,” Monica says.

Cor frowns. “I don’t know, the kid’s still getting used to me…”

“It will impair his socialization skills later in life if he does not learn how to communicate with other people now.”

“I know, but it’s still only been two damn days since we got him out of that place.”

“Marshal,” Monica says, her voice firm and unwavering, “if you do not go to the store soon, you and the boy will face some dilemmas in the not-so-distant future. It’s a better idea to go now, while I am here and willing, than to leave it to a time when no one will be around to help.”

Cor exhales. “I don’t-- fine, just-- take care of him.”

Monica frowns. “There’s no reason for you to leave right this minute, Marshal.” 

Cor laughs once, but it does not sound happy to NH-01987. “You’ve made your point. Besides, like you said, it won’t be long, _right_?” 

NH-01987 swallows and Monica’s frown lessens, but her eyebrows dig further into her eyes. “I’ll make you a list,” she says, and leaves to the room where Cor made the Cup Noodles.

He exhales once more. “It’s one thing admitting to myself that I don’t know what I’m doing, but it’s something different when someone else calls you out on it.” Cor makes eye-contact with NH-01987. “Shi- _oot_ ,” he says, “I’m her boss, and she just barges in here like she owns the place.”

NH-01987 frowns; the action is much more natural than smiling. “Does Monica require correction?” he asks, because Cor is her superior, and she has displeased Cor, and a displeased superior means correction. However, Cor does not seem to be preparing for a correction; rather, he stares at NH-01987 with wide eyes and a clenched jaw. For a moment, NH-01987 thinks that he will receive his share of the Commander’s-- _> Cor’s _anger. 

“No,” Cor says eventually. “Monica doesn’t need-- correction.”

“But she disobeyed and displeased you.” 

“Yeah, but that’s alright-- well, not really-- but I allow it because I _know_ Monica and no matter how much she pisses me off at times, I’m not going to punish her. I wouldn’t punish any of the people who serve under me by-- _correcting_ them. Worst thing they’d have to do is run the length of the Citadel a few times or make them clean the locker room bathrooms with toothbrushes.”

“Oh,” NH-01987 says. He thinks for a moment, then adds, “I am proficient in running and athletics.”

“Uh, that’s great, kid? I don’t know what you want me to do about that…” NH-01987 does not know why he told Cor that either, except he does know. He wants Cor to know that he is not completely-- defective, not broken, he can serve under Cor just like all the other units-- _humans_. 

NH-01987 swallows, but says nothing. Monica reenters the room moments later, a small scrap of paper held in hand. 

“This is only good enough to get you started, Cor. You’ll need to learn how to do this own your own,” she says as she hands the paper to Cor. 

Cor averts his gaze, “I know, Monica.” He then turns back to NH-01987. “I’m going to be gone for a little bit. Monica’s going to stay with you, so listen to what she says, okay?”

“Is that an order?”

Cor grits his teeth and says, “Yeah, I guess it is. Just-- I’ll be back.”

“Yeah,” NH-01987 says. Cor pulls a corner of his lip up and grabs his boots, putting them on and then exiting through the entrance with no further words. NH-01987 holds Bobo close.

Monica exhales harshly, then looks at NH-01987. “The Marshal,” she says, “is a very stubborn man.”

“Yeah.”

Monica frowns. “So, it’s just us now. What would you like to do?”

NH-01987 stares at her, then at the top of Bobo’s head. “I do not know,” he says.

“Hm,” Monica sings. “Do you want to keep watching the Cooking Channel?”

NH-01987 turns his attention to the television. The same woman from earlier is still talking. “Yea--s,” he says.

Monica smiles, “Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

NH-01987 bites his lip, the meaning of the words foreign to him. Monica is-- she is not Cor, so is it still acceptable for him to ask questions? She did not appear to be unhappy when he used ‘yeah’ earlier, so perhaps…?

“What does that mean?” he asks quietly. Monica looks-- not angry, but something else, her eyebrows raised and mouth slightly agape. She closes her mouth and returns to a neutral expression as she speaks. 

“To not mind something means that one does not-- it does not make one displeased to have another do the action that follows. It is a request.”

NH-01987 thinks, then answers, “I do not mind.” Monica smiles and sits down next to him in the space Cor sat previously. She sits further away from NH-01987, however, making it so that their two bodies are not pressed together. She sits with her back straight, not bent over like Cor, and has her hands in her lap. She looks at the television, then at NH-01987. 

“Do you like Cor?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” NH-01987 says, avoiding Monica’s gaze by staring intently at the top of Bobo’s head. 

“I’m glad,” he hears Monica say.

“Yeah.”

There is silence, then, “What do you think of Insomnia?”

NH-01987 works his lip beneath his teeth, then answers, “I do not know what Insomnia is.” Monica was not unhappy when he asked a question earlier, so NH-01987 thinks it is acceptable to ask her questions. It would make him happy if that was the situation. 

“Insomnia is the city we’re currently located in,” she answers. NH-01987 looks up at her, not meeting her eyes. 

“What’s a city?” he asks quietly. 

“Hm,” Monica sings, “a city a location that is normally occupied by a fair amount of people and features many buildings and amenities. Insomnia is the largest city on the continent, and spans all the land within the Walls.”

“Oh,” NH-01987 says. “I think Insomnia is-- big. There are a lot of humans and the buildings are-- big.” 

Monica laughs quietly. “That certainly is one way to describe it. You saw the Citadel too, didn’t you?”  
“I do not know what the Citadel is.”

“The Citadel is the building I believe Cor took you to to meet with His Majesty and his Shield.”

“What are those?” 

“His Majesty’s real name is King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII and his Shield’s name is Clarus Amicitia.”

NH-01987 remembers the Citadel now, that building that towered over all others, a fortress even more secure than the training facility. 

“It was very alive,” NH-01987 says after a brief pause.

Monica smiles. “That certainly is one way to describe it.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you like the most?”

“I do not understand.”

“My apologies. What I meant is what do you like the most about being here? With Cor.”  
NH-01987 thinks. He thinks and he thinks and he thinks, because there is so much to like and so much that makes him happy. 

He starts with what is directly in front of him. “I like Bobo.”

“Oh? Why is that?” 

It is difficult to put into words everything it is that Bobo does for NH-01987, but Monica asked so he must attempt to do so. 

“Bobo is-- warm, he is always there. His hair is-- soft, and when he sits with me it makes me feel-- warm-- _happy_ \-- and I do not want him to go away.”

“I’m glad he can do that for that.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything else you like?”

“I do not know-- there is so much. The world is very big.”

“I understand,” Monica says. NH-01987 is happy that Monica understands; he does not know how he would convey the vastness of everything if Monica did not understand.

“I am glad you found things that make you happy.”

NH-01987 averts his eyes. Monica makes him feel-- like he should be hiding somewhere, to avoid her words. Her words make him feel-- too happy, like it is something to be hidden. It is a strange feeling. His face feels warm. 

Monica’s eyes are half closed and her mouth twitches upwards in an imitation of a smile.  “I did not mean to embarrass you.”

“Embarrass?”

Monica’s almost-smile disappears. “It means-- to feel shame.”

“Oh,” NH-01987 says. “What is shame?”

“It is a feeling of-- hm. I do not know how to describe it. I hope you can forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” NH-01987 says, somewhat confused. Monica laughs quietly into her hand. 

“I suppose there isn’t,” she says. The two lapse into a steady silence, unbroken by anything but the voices from the television. Noting that Monica appears to be finished with her interrogation, NH-01987 turns his attention back to the television. The woman on it is still speaking in terms he does not understand, but her voice is low and she looks-- soft. Warm. Unlike Commander’s, the woman is all round edges and dark skin, as opposed to sharp cheeks and skin so pale it might be mistaken for the snow outside. 

Monica and NH-01987 sit in silence until there is the sound of movement at the front door. Monica rises from Cor’s place on the chair, and moves over to the door. 

“Do you require assistance?” he asks her. 

“No, don’t worry,” she says, opening the front door. “See?” she says as she steps away, revealing Cor to be the one causing the rustling noise. 

“Cor!” NH-01987 exclaims, then immediately quiets. He swallows.

“Hey, kid,” Cor answers. He is holding multiple bags in hand, each one a rectangular shape and completely full with assorted goods. He has two bags in his left hand, and three in his right. 

“Do you require assistance?” he asks Cor, who has yet to move from his place in the doorway. 

“Help would be nice,” he says, staring directly at Monica. NH-01987 rushes off the chair after carefully placing Bobo down on the table and is at Cor’s side within seconds. He holds out both of his arms, ready to provide Cor with the necessary assistance. 

“Oh,” Cor says. “I don’t-- I’m actually okay--” Oh. Cor appears to see something that causes him to change his mind, and he says, “You know what? Here, could you bring this into the dining room for me? The dining room’s where the table is.” NH-01987 takes the proffered bag and nods, completing the task efficiently. He does not even stop for Bobo. 

“Thanks for the help, kid,” Cor says, following NH-01987 into the kitchen. He places his bags on the table, an action which NH-01987 quickly replicates. He stands at attention, waiting for Cor’s next directive. 

“Er, you don’t have to-- nevermind. Hey, where’s Bobo?” 

“He is on the cushioned chair,” NH-01987 says and swallows. Did Cor need him to bring Bobo over?

“Oh, okay. I’ve just hardly seen you without him, it’s kinda weird.”

“Yeah,” NH-01987 says. Bobo is-- essential to him. Necessary. 

“Glad to see you made it back with incident, Marshal,” Monica says, walking into the room shortly after Cor. 

“Yeah, about that…”

“What’s wrong?” Monica asks, instantly alert. NH-01987 stiffens as well. He thinks to Bobo sitting in the other room, and thinks that it would make him happy if Bobo were sitting in his arms. 

“Nothing bad, necessarily,” Cor says. “It’s just nothing good. Clarus called me while I was at the store, told me to bring the kid down today for some testing.” NH-01987 does not think it possible, but he stiffens even further. He can hear his heart beating in his ears, an irregular ‘ _thump,’_ a noise that reverberates throughout his entire body. NH-01987 knows that his breathing has grown erratic as well as his heartbeat, but he can not-- he is defective, he is broken, _they will see_ , _they will decommission him_ \--

“Yeah, Clarus said he wants to test the kid’s strength and ability, maybe run a few medical tests. I tried to tell him to leave those for later, but he couldn’t be convinced.” Cor shakes his head. “All these years I’ve known him, and he’s never quite been able to pull the stick out of his ass.”

“That’s hardly appropriate language to use in front of a child,” Monica reprimands, but adds, “but I suppose you do have a point.”

Cor lets out a sharp noise through his nose, then moves to remove the items from the bags. NH-01987 wants-- he wants to help, but he can not, he is frozen, trapped in a room without windows, without light or warmth and there are needles and people in white coverings and everything is so _cold_ \-- the world, the people in it, and there is _nothing_ he can do. 

Cor has his back turned to NH-01987, Monica does not, and she looks over at NH-01987, then asks, “Are you okay?”

NH-01987 opens his mouth in response to the stimuli, but nothing comes out, and it feels like the floor beneath him is not the floor at all, but a tiny platform that he can not fall off of, lest he be labelled a failure. Failed unit, failure of a human, failure, _failure._ The word echoes in his head, bouncing from ear to ear. 

Monica is talking but NH-01987 cannot hear any words. Cor turns around and kneels in front of NH-01987. He puts his hands on NH-01987’s shoulders, but the touch is-- distant. NH-01987 realizes he is shaking. The thought does not cause him as much distress as it previously did.

Cor picks NH-01987 up and holds him securely in his arms. NH-01987 returns the action, wrapping his arms around Cor’s broad form. Cor places him down on the cushioned chair, next to Bobo. He then picks Bobo up and sets him on NH-01987’s chest while NH-01987 stares blankly ahead. 

“Kid,” he hears Cor say from far away, “ _kid_ , please, what’s wrong? Is it the blood, are you hurting anywhere, _please_ talk to me.” Monica is standing next to him and has the same expression as Cor is making on her face: eyebrows pushing deep into wide eyes and mouth turned downward in a distinct frown. 

NH-01987 holds Bobo. He has to answer, so he says, “Systems are functional,” but even he knows that that is false information, so he swallows. 

“You’re not okay,” Cor rebuts firmly, scowling. Monica nods. “C’mon, you have to tell me what happened. That’s--” and Cor chokes, seemingly on his own words, “that’s an order, kid.”

NH-01987 freezes, but forces his body into action. The breaths he takes are not involuntary; they are forced as NH-01987 reminds himself of the breathing techniques taught at the facility. In, one two three, out, one, two three. Repeat. 

“Unit-- unit had reaction to future orders causing-- causing--”

“It’s okay, kid,” Cor says and put his hand on NH-01987’s shoulder. “You don’t have to say any more, but _fuck_ \--”

Monica looks down at NH-01987 from Cor’s side. “Is it possible that the, er, _order_ you had an adverse reaction to was Cor’s mentioning of going in for testing?”

NH-01987 remains silent, but nods. Monica looks at Cor without turning her head, simply staring at him from the corner of her eyes. Cor looks-- afraid, his eyes are wide and eyebrows high, and his mouth is slightly open. 

“Oh, kid. _Kid_. The tests aren’t-- they aren’t going to be like what you had, Clarus is just going to see how-- _advanced_ you are regarding physical training, and there will be a few medical tests, but it shouldn’t be anything more than checking your temperature and maybe drawing a bit of blood.”

“They won’t-- they won’t decommission units if they fail?”

“ _What_!? No! No, this isn’t-- it’s not like where you were before, I promise no one is going to decommission you!”

NH-01987 stops looking at Cor and turns his attention to Bobo. The chocobo’s eyes are a black darker than NH-01987’s jumpsuit, but they are warmer. Light reflects off them and through them, and NH-01987 thinks that he would like it if his eyes did the same, instead of glowing a red the color of warning lights. 

“Okay,” NH-01987 says. He shifts so that he is in a sitting position and holds out a hand and Cor takes it, his small hand entirely covered by Cor’s rough one. Cor lifts him up, off the couch, and suddenly NH-01987 is standing once more, Bobo in hand. 

“Wait,” Monica says, “perhaps Clarus will reconsider once he learns of the boy’s condition. He is a reasonable person, he’ll--”

Cor shakes his head. “Not with this, Monica. He said he needs to know how much of a threat the boy poses to the kingdom before he, and I quote, allows the kid to ‘run free.’”

NH-01987 would like to know how much of a threat he poses to other humans as well. He thinks back to when he and Cor were making Cup Noodles in the kitchen, of when he thought Cor was a target and nearly--

NH-01987 would like to think about something else. 

NH-01987 thinks about Bobo, and how soft he is, instead. He strokes the chocobo’s hair without thought or conscious acknowledgement that he is stroking him at all. 

“But Clarus--”

“Listen Monica, I’ve known Clarus nearly my entire life. He’s not going to bend, not on something that might hurt Regis.”

Monica quiets. “I know you’re right, Marshal. I just…”

“I understand, Monica. I feel the same.” Cor turns to NH-01987 and asks, “What do you think, kid?” Cor asks NH-01987.

“I think it is imperative to know the threat level that a unit-- I pose to you and the rest of the humans,” NH-01987 says, modulating his voice so that it does not waver and betray hesitance.

Cor frowns. “That’s not-- that’s not why you should do this. I-- we know you’re not a threat to us.”

NH-01987 averts his gaze and says nothing. He does not want to disagree with Cor in this moment. He feels so-- like he has spent a full day training and being tested without pause, like he has been deprived of water and nutrients and a period to recharge, he feels--

It is not important. What _is_ important is Cor’s safety, and if the man-- _Clarus_ \-- can determine whether NH-01987 is a threat or not, then that is-- then that will make him happy. He would rather be decommissioned before can hurt Cor-- anyone. He does not want to cause Monica any pain, either. She has been-- like Cor, but different. She is warm, just like Cor, but she is quieter, and more-- less loud. 

Cor holds out a hand to NH-01987. “I promise I won’t let them-- do anything bad to you.”

NH-01987 bites his lip and says, “Promise?” He does not know what a promise is. He would like to.

“Promise,” Cor repeats. He does not answer NH-01987’s question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> monica was not meant to be in this chapter, but here she is.


	7. reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> old faces and new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boyo is this chapter a monster. longest chapter to date. also! a turning point, as it marks the end of the unofficial 'part 1' of you can always be found. thank you all so much for your support, it really means the world. 
> 
> 'but wait costco,' you may be asking. 'what does the end of part 1 mean?'
> 
> well my friends, if you remember this story was originally a five shot. two shots with cor, one transition period, two shots with noct and co. what will be happening next is the transition period, which will hopefully only take one to two chapters. i have been very wrong before, so who knows. 
> 
> for those who are worried about not seeing cor anymore, don't! he's still here and a very important part of prompto's life, just not featured as prominently. 
> 
> thank you all so much!
> 
> (special thanks to [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori/pseuds/phori). she has a new fic out. you should totally check it out.

The trip to the Citadel-- that is what NH-01987 remembers Monica calling the large fortress-- feels quicker than the first time. NH-01987 does not know if this is truly the case, as he is not currently measuring the time passed. Perhaps it is because he is no longer outfitted with the articles of clothing that covered every inch of his exposed skin. Instead, he is simply wearing the black jumpsuit. 

Cor and NH-01987 enter the building, which still has humans _everywhere_. There are so many people, but Cor leads NH-01987 past them so fast that he barely has a chance to register their faces. His vision is slightly obscured by the glasses Cor had put on him once more. Cor enters the small room that he previously took NH-01987 into, and once again pushes a button on the wall, which lights up. The room moves beneath NH-01987’s feets, and he grabs the wall for support with his hand that is not occupied by Bobo. Cor asked NH-01987 if he would prefer to leave Bobo at the ‘apartment,’ but NH-01987 declined (after a lengthy pause) and asked if it would be okay if Bobo accompanied them to the Citadel. Cor agreed, which made NH-01987 happy. 

Monica had followed them out of the building, but departed in a different car than Cor, telling him that, “I’ll be over again soon.” She had then turned to NH-01987 and said, “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

NH-01987 responded with, “Yeah.” 

The room reaches its destination, and Cor takes NH-01987’s hand in his own once more, and leads him through the maze of hallways to where Clarus met them last. The man in question is talking to a different woman who salutes when she sees Cor. 

“At ease,” Cor says, and Clarus turns around at his voice. 

“Marshal,” he says. 

“Clarus,” he responds. 

Clarus turns to the woman he was previously talking to and says, “You are dismissed.” The woman nods and leaves the way Cor and NH-01987 came.

“I see you brought the boy,” Clarus says. 

“I did,” Cor says, no emotion showing on his face. His face is as blank as the walls of the facility. 

Clarus sighs. “Walk with me, Cor,” he says and begins walking down the empty hallway. Cor follows, as does NH-01987. NH-01987 notes that the upper levels of the Citadel are a lot more empty than the lower ones. “I _need_ to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the boy will cause no harm to the King or the Kingdom.”

“I _know_ ,” Cor says, forcefully. “ _For King and Crown_. They’re... what come first.” 

Clarus nods. “Good, so you understand. The tests won’t be too intricate, just a way to gauge the boy’s combat ability and how much the…”

“Extra additions?” Cor says.

“Yes, to see how those affect him and to see if there’s any chance Niflheim could still use him as a weapon.”

Cor sings wordlessly, but says nothing. NH-01987 is trailing behind the two humans. Their legs are a lot longer than his, and NH-01987 considers running as an option to keep up. Before he can, Clarus asks, “Where did the boy go?”

Cor stops and turns around to face NH-01987, who freezes momentarily, but then walks at a quickened pace so that he is soon standing at Cor’s side. His fingers dig into Bobo’s soft hair as Clarus levels a disapproving glare in NH-01987’s direction.

Clarus turns back to Cor and continues walking. This time, NH-01987 will keep pace. He will not disappoint Cor (or Clarus) again. 

“Does he have a name yet?” Clarus asks.

“Six, Clarus, it’s been two days.”

“I meant no disrespect. I just--”  
“You know, Clarus,” Cor begins, “if you really want answers to your questions you can ask the kid yourself.”

Clarus exhales harshly. “It’s been more than twenty years and you still haven’t changed a bit,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Neither have you, in the ways that count.”

Clarus lets loose a sound that is halfway between a laugh and a noise of disapproval. He turns to NH-01987 as he walks and asks, “How has your stay in Insomnia been this far?”

NH-01987 stops biting down on his lip to say, “Beneficial.” Cor coughs breathily into the crook of his arm. To NH-01987, it almost sounds like a laugh. He does not know why Cor would have to disguise his laughs as something else, however. 

Clarus shakes his head. “In what ways?” 

“In-- beneficial ways.” NH-01987 thinks, then says, “Insomnia is not the training facility.”

Clarus sings wordlessly and nods. “I suppose it’s not.” He stops in front of a metal door and scans an identification key. There is a ‘beep,’ and the doors slide open. Clarus enters, and Cor follows. NH-01987 does as well, but not before stopping at the scanner. He looks to Cor for instructions, but Cor simply grabs his right arm-- the one with his identification code-- and pulls him into a small room similar to the one Cor and NH-01987 rode in previously. Clarus stares at the exchange, but says nothing. The doors close, and the room descends. There are no railings to hold onto in this room-- it is metallic, and cold. There is a myriad of buttons on the wall, one of which is already lit up. 

The room stops, and Cor, Clarus, and NH-01987 exit. The hallway they exit out onto is not entirely unlike the empty hallways of the facility. It is-- there are no people, and the walls are a dark gray; the floor is a laquered stone that reflects the light from the fixtures that line the walls. It is the complete lack of people, NH-01987 thinks, that makes this hallway so similar to the facility. There is the same sense of-- nothingness, of sterility.

Clarus takes the lead once more, and Cor and NH-01987 follow. Their distance to their destination is not long, as within minutes Clarus stops. NH-01987 nearly walks into Cor’s back, so sudden was their stop. 

“I had the staff put together a small training room-- I didn’t want for word of him to spread, so to speak,” Clarus says. Cor nods, so Clarus continues. “The testing today will not be too intensive: simply testing physical capabilities and acquiring medical information. I had a recruit sign an NDA; he will be the one to spar with the boy.”

“Wait,” Cor interjects, “you want a seven year old to fight a Crownsguard recruit?” 

Clarus looks at Cor with his eyebrows drawn tight and eyes narrowed. “No, I _need_ the boy to have a simple spar with a recruit who even Gladio was able to defeat.”

Cor frowns. “Would you trust him with Iris?”

Clarus snorts. “The question is whether I trust Iris with him, but I understand your perspective, Marshal. There is no need to worry: I already told the recruit to take it easy on the boy.”

Cor nods, but still looks unhappy. He turns to NH-01987 and asks, “Are you okay with this?”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says, shoulders straight and head tilted slightly up so he is looking Cor directly in the eyes. He holds Bobo close to his chest, just over his heart. Cor’s eyes fall to Bobo.

“I’ll need to hold onto Bobo while you,” and Cor pauses and narrows his eyes at Clarus, “ _spar_. Are you okay with that?”

NH-01987 swallows, but answers with a quiet, less assured, “Yes.”

“Alright,” Cor says, and leans down to grab Bobo, whom NH-01987 easily relinquishes. Clarus opens the solid door they stopped in front of, and walks in ahead of NH-01987 and Cor, both of whom quickly follow. 

The door shuts behind NH-01987 with a resounding ‘ _thud_.’ The noise makes NH-01987 think of endings, of being lowered into a storage pod, viscous liquid lapping at his feet and filling his lungs until he can stay conscious no more. Cor puts a hand on NH-01987’s back and pushes him forward into the center of the room, staring at Clarus all the while.

The room is square. In the middle of the room is a raised, circular structure that appears to be made out of a blue cloth that reflects the light. Around the perimeter of the raised structure are ropes that hang loosely. NH-01987 can not discern their purpose, so he looks to Cor for further instructions. 

“Where’s the recruit?” Cor asks. 

Clarus looks distinctly unhappy. “He was supposed to be here, waiting for us.” He raises his wrist to just below his chin and looks down at an accessory strapped to it. His lips thin. “He is running late.”

Cor snorts. “Late isn’t the only thing he’ll be running,” he says, and Clarus nods. “What did you say his name was?”

“His name is--” Clarus begins, but is cut off by the sound of the door slamming open. NH-01987 flinches, and Cor and Clarus quickly turn around to view the cause of the sound. 

The cause of the noise appears to be a human man, younger than Cor but older than NH-01987. The man is panting lightly, shoulders lifting up and down with each breath. He stands to attention.

“Apologies, sir,” the man says. “You were running late, and I had to-- _holy shit_ , is that Cor the Immortal?”

“Unimportant,” Clarus says, voice level and eyes cold. “You were expected to be here waiting, and by disobeying orders you have set us back valuable minutes.” 

“Apologies--” 

“Apologies are not what are important in this situation,” Clarus says. “I trust that your warm-ups are complete?”

“Yes, sir,” the man says. Then, he breaks form, his shoulders falling and eyebrows pushed down. “Will I be fighting against Cor the Immortal?” he asks quietly, without force.

“No,” Clarus says, and the man exhales loudly. “You will be _sparring_ with him,” Clarus says, gesturing to NH-01987 who stands at attention. His form would satisfy even the harshest of Commanders, though he imagines that it would be better if the glasses he is wearing were removed. Eye contact is very important when dealing with Commanders. 

“Wh-- But--- I-- That’s a kid!” the man exclaims, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “I can’t fight a five year old!” 

“Seven,” Clarus corrects. Cor glares at him with half-closed eyes, which Clarus ignores. “Remember, you signed a nondisclosure agreement; nothing you see here today is to leave this room.”

The man swallows, and answers, “Yes, sir.” 

Cor turns to NH-01987. “Do you want to do some warm-ups, kid?”

NH-01987 thinks, then shakes his head. In non simulated combat situations, one cannot expect there to be time to prepare. Simulations are meant to be conducted in conditions as similar to true battles as possible, and NH-01987 wants to give Cor an accurate reading of his combat capabilities as possible. Cor nods, frowning, and takes the glasses off of NH-01987. The man Clarus was talking to says nothing, but inhales sharply. 

“Are the both of you prepared?” Clarus asks. 

“Uh, yes, sir,” the man says. NH-01987 nods when Clarus looks at him. 

“The two of you will engage in a simple mock-fight on the makeshift arena. Do not fight with the intent to kill,” he says, looking directly at NH-01987, who nods. “The fight will end when I say so. Understood?”

“Understood,” the man and NH-01987 say in unison. NH-01987 walks over to the blue platform. He glances back at Cor once more before climbing up the platform. Cor does not look happy. The man steps up as well, looking just as unhappy. He and NH-01987 face each other, unmoving, until Clarus says, “Begin.” 

NH-01987 begins analyzing his opponent, who has taken a small step forward. That is beneficial; his hesitance gives NH-01987 time to plan. His opponent is larger than him, and has more physical strength than NH-01987. However, NH-01987’s small stature grants him greater maneuverability and overall better speed. In addition, his opponent appears unwilling to engage in a true fight; NH-01987 lacks those reservations, thus giving him the advantage. His opponent’s hesitance is reminiscent of units who had just recently obtained combat information, meaning his opponent is as unskilled as a newly trained unit. 

His opponent swings with his right arm-- dominant side, go for the left-- and NH-01987 quickly falls to the floor and rolls behind his opponent. He stands quickly, and with his right foot hooks around his opponent’s left foot. He pulls, and his opponent falls, his height working against him. 

NH-01987 expects that to be the end of the fight, but his opponent rolls as he hits the ground and stands up once more, eyes wide and breathing erratic. NH-01987 knows that the same move will not work again until he can get his opponent to lose his concentration. His opponent runs forward, winding up his right arm but giving a quick punch with his left. NH-01987 jumps to the side, avoiding the feint, and closes in on his opponent. His opponent raises his right arm once again, but this time the muscles in his opponent’s arm are tensed, indicating that this hit is real. NH-01987 halts his movement the moment before his opponents strikes, bending his knees in preparation. His opponent strikes, and NH-01987 leaps forwards, ducking under the punch and moving towards his opponent’s legs. He executes the same leg sweep, and his opponent falls to the ground once more. 

“Enough,” Clarus calls, and NH-01987 exits his fighting stance. The man stands, breathing heavily. He watches the man put his hands on his waist and stretch his back. NH-01987 turns his attention to Clarus, who looks unhappy. Cor has the same look on his face, and NH-01987 stiffens. Did he do-- What did he do wrong? He did as instructed: fought without fatalities, but was that not enough? Was he supposed to-- did it take him too long? NH-01987 knows his performance exceeded the normal time limit, but--?

“C’mere, kid,” Cor says. NH-01987 obeys without hesitation, unwilling to upset Cor or Clarus any further. “Here,” Cor says once NH-01987 is at his side, placing the glasses on NH-01987’s face once more. 

NH-01987 observes Clarus walk over to the man, whose breathing has steadied and who is currently standing at attention. 

“Good work,” Clarus says, and the man looks uncertain. 

“But I--” 

“What was needed was accomplished,” Clarus says, his words indicating an ending of the conversation. NH-01987 notes that his Commanders never needed to speak that way to him. NH-01987 was an obedient unit, and it feels impossible to him to have a subordinate speak against their superior. 

“Remember,” Clarus says, “speak of this to no one. Not your friends in training, not your family, not me, _no one_. As far as you are concerned, this never happened.”

“Yes, sir,” the man says, looking unhappy.

“Your punishment for your tardiness will be assigned at a later time. Dismissed.” The man nods and leaves the room, his shoulders slouched and mouth pressed into a thin line. Cor exhales forcefully. 

“Did you get what you want, Clarus?” 

“Yes,” Clarus says. 

“Good,” Cor says, though his tone of voice does not indicate that it is ‘good’ at all. Cor is full of many contradictions, NH-01987 thinks. 

“Yes, well, don’t get too excited, Marshal, we’re not done yet.”

“I’m aware,” Cor says, his voice unchanging. Clarus leads them out of the small room and back into the hallway. He appears to be leading them back towards the small, moving room. 

“So how’d they-- how’d you learn to fight like that?” Cor asks NH-01987. 

“Primary fighting maneuvers are uploaded, and then tested repeatedly in spars.”

“Uploaded?”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says, turning his neck and pulling back the flap on the back of his jumpsuit, revealing the port that connects directly to his nervous system. It is smaller than most ports, but bigger than the nutrient port on his right bicep. “They have-- wires, that they use to-- plug in and upload. It is done-- all at once, so units can--” NH-01987 trails off. He remembers his upload. It was-- painful, NH-01987 thinks. There was so much that wasn’t there, and then there was, and he thought his head was going to explode. That day, no one had come to retrieve him from the storage pod and had allowed him the chance to sort through all the new information. NH-01987 wonders if Cor or Clarus is taking him to get a new information upload; NH-01987 thinks he would not mind the pain if it meant he did not have to ask questions all the time.

They approach and enter the small room, Clarus swiping his identification card once more. Once they are inside the room, Cor asks, “What was sparring like?” 

NH-01987 swallows. “It was-- units fought one on one initially. The winner would continue on, fighting other units who passed, while the loser would-- face correction. Too many losses and a unit would be d-decommissioned.”

From the other side of the room, NH-01987 observes Clarus stiffen, then take a deep breath in and untense his muscles. He looks to Cor, whose face is drawn into a scowl. Once he sees NH-01987’s panicked face, Cor quickly says, “Oh no, I’m not--” he smiles, and NH-01987 thinks he understands what Cor means when he calls his smiles forced, “I’m not angry at you-- I’m just--” 

“I believe what the Marshal means to say is that what was done to you is reprehensible. No child should have to grow up in such conditions,” Clarus says, and his voice is not as hard as it is on most occasions. Cor nods.

“Oh,” NH-01987 says. He does not know what reprehensible means. The small room stops moving, and the three exit the elevator. The hallway they exit out into is a cold, sterile white that reminds NH-01987 even more directly of the facility. The ceiling above them seems to be too low, and the lights, while bright, feel artificial and nothing at all like the sun. 

Clarus takes the lea, walking down the cold hallway, past multiple doors until he stops at ‘Room XV.’ 

“Shi--oot,” Cor says, “You’re using one of _these_ rooms?”

“What would you suggest, Marshal? That I use one of the public hospital rooms?”

“No, but--”

“Precisely,” Clarus says, and Cor quiets, looking distinctly displeased. It is an expression he has had for most of his time at the Citadel. Clarus opens the door, and Cor beckons with his hand that is unoccupied by Bobo, who NH-01987 had been staring at intently, and NH-01987 enters. The room is just as bright and cold as the hallway. There are two-- _medical personnel_ in white coats who are observing equipment and-- _preparing_. NH-01987 stands as straight as he can. He wants Bobo, he thinks to himself as Clarus talks to the medical personnel. 

Cor moves closer to NH-01987 so that he is standing right next to him. He extends his hand and nudges it against NH-01987’s own. NH-01987 grabs onto Cor’s hand like it is-- the last thing he will ever feel. It is a support-- a pillar, the floor, the ceiling: something immovable and immutable, firm, and forever. It is not Bobo, but NH-01987 likes it all the same. 

“--the tests are to be relatively non-invasive,” he hears Clarus say. “A physical exam and a blood test, and that is to be all for today. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the medical personnel answer. 

Cor pushes NH-01987 forward, towards the chair in the center of the room. It is different from the cold metal tables medical personnel at the training facility would have him lie on while they did-- what they needed to do. NH-01987 climbs up on the chair and sits facing forward. 

Cor looks down at his arms and asks, “Can I give the kid the chocobo to hold onto?” 

“Yes,” the female says, holding a black cloth strap. Cor gives Bobo to NH-01987, who NH-01987 happily accepts. He holds Bobo close to his chest, his soft hair rubbing against NH-01987’s nose and giving him the urge to sneeze. His does not. Sneezing is unprofessional. 

The woman walks over to NH-01987 and says, “We’re going to do some basic tests, okay honey?”

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. 

“Alright, I’m gonna need to take those sunglasses off of you, because we’re going to be doing some basic eye exams as well as a physical.”

“But Cor--” NH-01987 says, and then realizes that he is disobeying an order. But by taking them off he would be disobeying Cor’s order, and Cor ranks higher. NH-01987 thinks that this problem would not have happened at the facility; orders were always so much clearer and more concise. 

“Well,” the woman says, “Marshal, is it okay if I take his glasses off?” 

“Yeah,” Cor says, “Just don’t--” 

Cor is cut off by the woman’s gasp of, “Oh my!” as she removes the glasses from NH-01987. Her hand is positioned above her heart, and she appears to be unable to move from that position. NH-01987 averts his eyes and looks down at Bobo. He hears the woman walk over to Cor, and then back to NH-01987. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, “you just surprised me.” 

“Apologies,” NH-01987 says and the woman laughs. NH-01987 hears the man at the counter say, “Alright, enough of that. We’re here to work, not coddle children, if you forgot.”

The woman frowns, but says nothing and walks away from NH-01987. The woman leans forward, and says, “I’m going to put this on your left arm, okay?” NH-01987 nods. “It might get a little tight, but it shouldn’t hurt too bad.” The woman does as she said she would do, the black strap she was holding now secured around NH-01987’s left bicep. He hears little puffing noises coming from it, and he assumes that that is the sound of it inflating, as he can feel it slowly getting tighter and tighter. At one point, it deflates, the air rushing out of it in a quiet ‘fwish,’ then inflates once more, even tighter than the previous time. 

Eventually, it stays deflated, and the woman removes it. She checks the electronic face of it that NH-01987 previously missed because it was facing away from him. She walks over to the counter and grabs a clipboard and writes something down. NH-01987 is used to this, he tells himself. It is-- nothing different from the facility, it is fine, he is used to being observed. 

“His blood pressure is right where it should be,” she tells Cor, who nods. The man at the counter exhales harshly and walks briskly over to NH-01987. He is holding a needle in his hand that is attached to a smaller tube. NH-01987 recognizes it: medical personnel at the training facility always used these kinds of needles to extract blood. 

“He’s going to--”

“Draw some blood, yes,” the man says coldly, and grabs NH-01987’s left arm. He ties a stretchy, plastic band around NH-01987’s arm which cuts off the blood flow, revealing his veins. The man holds up the needles and inserts it, missing the vein at first but hitting it after a short while of digging around with the needle. The blood that flows into the container is a dark red, the color of dried human blood. It is not red, but it is not black either. NH-01987’s right arm tightens around Bobo. 

“Huh,” NH-01987 hears Cor say. “I thought it would be black.”

“Hm,” Clarus says. 

The man drawing NH-01987’s blood takes the container attached to the end of the tube and quickly swaps it out for a similar one. NH-01987’s hand is starting to feel-- cold, but not as bad as it has been in the past. The man repeats the process a few more times; each time the woman takes the container full of blood from him and sets it in a holder. The man sings wordlessly, and grabs a cotton ball. He presses the ball down where the needle meets NH-01987’s skin, and slowly removes the needle from NH-01987. He then uses a small strip of sticky paper to keep the cotton ball down. A little bit of blood bleeds through.

The woman makes a sound in the back of her throat, and says, “Frigus?” 

“Yes?” The woman gestures to a small black instrument in her hand. “A minute, I’m not finished,” the man says, leaning forward to look closely at NH-01987’s eyes. He reaches forward, and NH-01987 fights not to flinch back as the man uses his thumb and index finger to pull NH-01987’s eyelid back. 

“Hey--” Cor begins, but is interrupted. 

“I’d like to remind you who’s in charge here, Frigus,” the woman says colds. The man exhales through his nose onto NH-01987’s eye, but releases his eyelid and allowing NH-01987 to blink. He retreats back towards the counter and the woman returns to NH-01987’s side. 

“I’ve realized I’ve yet to introduce myself,” the woman says. “My name is Herba Lenimen. What’s your name, sweetie?”

“My model is--”

“He doesn’t have one, not yet,” Cor interrupts. The woman looks unhappy, so Cor continues with, “Believe me, you don’t want to hear what he was going to say.”

The woman looks at Cor, and says, “That’s something you’re going to have to fix,” and there is a tone of command in her voice that makes NH-01987 want to have a name right there and then. But then NH-01987 remembers, he already has an identification code and model number, so what’s the point? What purpose would having a name fulfill?

“Well, sweetie, I’m gonna take a look at your eyes and ears to make sure they’re working all right and you don’t have any sickness. Does that sound alright?”

NH-01987 glances at Cor, who raises his shoulders and says, “Up to you, kid.” 

Clarus opens his mouth to say something, looking distinctly displeased at Cor, but NH-01987 says, “Yeah.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that!” The man-- Frigus?-- lets loose a noise from his nose that sounds-- unpleasant. There are a few sounds of glass touching each other from where Frigus is working. 

“Alright, I’m going to start with your ears, okay?” NH-01987 nods, and Herba uses the instrument in her hand to look into NH-01987’s ear. There is a slight pressure, but nothing else. She switches sides, and then pulls the instrument out, popping off the conical end that she used to examine the insides of NH-01987’s ears. She then throws the cap across the room, into the sink that NH-01987 did not notice was on the counter. 

Herba closes one eye and opens it again. “That took years to perfect, did you know that? I didn’t know if I’d be able to do it here, because this isn’t my normal room, but looks like I still got it.”

“Yeah,” NH-01987 says. Herba is a very warm person, and her warmth seems to be-- spreading to NH-01987. NH-01987 feels the corners of his mouth pull themselves up into the beginnings of a smile. 

“Alright, now I have to check your eyes. I’m going to shine a line in them; try not to blink, okay?”

NH-01987 says, “Yes,” because he thinks nodding his head would disrupt Hurba’s examination. The light in his eyes is uncomfortable but not painful, and Herba moves to NH-01987’s second eye the second he starts to think about blinking. The process is repeated, and Herba smiles as she moves the dark instrument away from NH-01987.

“Well, your eyes respond to light just fine, so there shouldn’t be any problems with that. I’m still going to do a quick eye exam to see if you need any corrective lenses, okay?”

“What?” Frigus asks, “We’re here to do an eye exam, we’re here to see what the Nifs--”

“We are here to _assist_ a child who has clearly never been to the doctor’s before, and make sure that he is as healthy as can be. If Mr. Amicitia disagrees, he would say so, _right_?”

“I certainly won’t stand in the way,” Clarus says, causing Cor to send a displeased look his way. “Though not what I expected to come from this session, it is still, er, productive.”

Herba walks over to a brown bag and pulls out a folded paper. NH-01987 sees her reach for something else, but she is too far to discern what. She walks to the wall that NH-01987 is facing and unfolds the paper and places it on the wall. She holds it up with one hand, and uses the other to grab something from the small object she previously grabbed, and then places that even smaller object so that it holds the paper up. She repeats this three more times, then returns to NH-01987’s side. 

“Alright sweetie, I’m going to need you to stand up for this.” NH-01987 nods and exits the chair, standing right next to Herba. 

“Alright, so,” she says, putting two hands on NH-01987’s shouders. NH-01987 fights the urge to flinch, to pull away, but he thinks that would not be-- optimal, so he clutches Bobo close to his chest with both hands. Herba guides him to stand in a spot that is about twenty feet away from the opposite wall. “I need you to read the letters on the poster as much as you can for me, okay?”

NH-01987 nods. He reads out, “E, F, P,” relatively easily, but squints and begins to stutter once he reaches, “T-T, Q? O! Z,” and then he reaches the next line that is nothing but fuzz. He swallows. He is-- Bobo is near him, Cor is near him, he should not be so unhappy, but he is-- even when he is a human he is defective in their ways, and can not understand, can not read--

“That’s good, sweetie,” Herba says, and turns to Cor whose eyebrows are raised. “You’ll need to take him to a real optometrist; he definitely needs glasses.” Cor nods. 

“Shi--oot kid, you should have told me your eyesight was so bad. You can’t really see anything, can you?”

“I can aim,” NH-01987 says, and he feels the need to let Cor know that he is not completely defunct, he has some value, some use, but NH-01987 knows that that need to let Cor know is a defect in and of itself. NH-01987 bites down on his lip and says, “I can shoot,” causing Clarus to stiffen and look at Cor. 

“I’m sure you can, kid,” Cor says, and he sounds-- unhappy. 

Herba makes a noise from deep in her throat and says, “We’re going to wrap up here. I just need to get his weight and check his temperature and we’re all done.”

“For now,” Clarus adds. 

“For now,” Herba agrees. Herba walks ahead of NH-01987, who follows dutifully as Clarus and Cor also follow. He is told to stand on a metal box, and he does as Herba moves the attachments on the top component of the box. She gets it so that the black line across the top remains even, not tilted to either side, and frowns. 

“He’s extremely underweight,” she says. “You’re the one taking care of him, correct, Marshal?” Cor nods. “I’d look up some easy recipes that are high in calories.” Cor nods once more. Herba motions for NH-01987 to step off of the box, so he does. Herba then slides an instrument across his forehead and examines it closely after. She writes something down on a piece of paper. 

“His temperature is healthy, 97.2 degrees. It’s a little under what we consider to be normal, but it’s very possible that he simply has a lower body temperature than most people.” That must mean that NH-01987’s body temperature is not-- correct, but Herba does not appear to be upset, nor does Cor. 

“Is that all?” he asks. 

“Yes, that is all for today,” Herba says.

“That’s good to hear,” Cor says, walking over to NH-01987’s side. He holds out a hand, which NH-01987 takes. He places the glasses back on NH-01987’s head and pulls half of his mouth up in a smile.  

“Healthy foods, optometrist,” Herba says, and moves forward, extending her hand to Cor. Cor uses his unoccupied hand to grab it. The hands lift once, then fall, returning to their original position. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” she says to NH-01987.

“Yeah,” NH-01987 says. Herba laughs and walks away. 

Cor turns to Clarus. “Are we finished?”

Clarus frowns. “There is one more thing I wish to observe.”

“And what would that be?” Cor asks, his hand tightening around NH-01987’s.

“I want to see how well he can shoot. You did say you were good at aiming?” 

“Yes,” NH-01987 says. “NH-01987 units were built for long-distance combat, with minimal close combat proficiencies. NH-01987 have a proficiency in handling firearms, handling anything from handguns to bazookas.”

Clarus and Cor are both frowning. NH-01987 avoids eye contact and holds Bobo close to his chest. 

“And what are you most proficient in?” Clarus asks. 

“Unit 05953--” NH-01987 cuts himself off, “I am most proficient in handguns.” 

“We’ll have to stop by the barracks to pick up a _Quicksilver_ , unless you have one in the Armiger already?”

Cor shakes his head, looking even more displeased than previously. “You’re going to give a seven year old a gun?”

“Well, he does listen to your orders, _doesn’t he_ , Marshal?” In that moment, with those words, Clarus sounds like a Commander. NH-01987 looks down at Bobo and bites his lip. 

Cor makes a sound from somewhere deep in his throat and looks-- his mouth is pulled down, but the top is pulled up, and his teeth are halfway exposed. His eyebrows push together, creating wrinkles on Cor’s tanned face. 

“I suppose so,” he says, and his voice is completely even, no hint of inflection. NH-01987 thinks that Cor is doing an excellent imitation of a-- no, Cor is human, Clarus is not a Commander, this is-- it is okay.  

The three walk back through the hallway, into the small moving room, and into a different hallway. The continue down the path until Clarus stops at a door, which he pushes open. There is no identification required, which NH-01987 finds-- irregular.

Clarus enters the door, then exits shortly thereafter, a silver handgun held in hand. NH-01987 observes him, focused solely on the man holding the weapon. Should he decide to hurt Cor, NH-01987 will have to-- 

The gun disappears in a flash of blue, and NH-01987 jumps, staring wide-eyed, but then he remembers. Clarus had done the same to his weapon previously, when NH-01987 first encountered him. The weapon had appeared in a flash of blue, and disappeared the same way. NH-01987 freezes, a realization occuring to him: Clarus is armed and has always been armed. He has not hurt Cor yet, but-- NH-01987 must not take his eyes off of him. Clarus is more dangerous than NH-01987 previously believed. 

They return to walking down the hall, led by Clarus once more. They do not walk far, reaching a door a few lengths away within a minutes. NH-01987 thinks that this is due to the fact that Clarus is maintaining a fast pace, one that causes NH-01987 to have to jog to keep pace.

Clarus opens the door, revealing the sun. NH-01987 jumps back, the bright light burning his eyes and skin. Within moments, the sensation subsides, and NH-01987 opens his eyes, squinting to adjust to the brightness. His skin-- he knows the sun does not hurt, not-- the sun causes pain, but does not make NH-01987 hurt. It is an easy pain, too, that NH-01987 easily endures. His skin feels numb. NH-01987 follows Cor out into the light.

“You doing okay there, kid?”

“Yes.”

Cor turns to Clarus. “What the hell were you thinking?” 

Clarus’ normally even expression turns to confusion. “What was I thinking? It’s the shooting range, Cor, where else would we go to test his prowess?”

“No, the sun. It-- hurts him.” NH-01987 opens his mouth to remind Cor of his newfound resistance, but Cor interrupts, saying, “Yeah, I know it doesn’t hurt _as much_ , but it’s a sunny day out and you don’t have any layers.” NH-01987 looks down at the bodysuit that covers everything but his hands, feet, and head. He looks back up at Cor. 

“Cor, may I interrupt?” Cor makes a sound, and Clarus continues. “During our debriefing, you never gave any indication that the boy had an adverse reaction to sunlight.”

“I told you they injected him with daemon blood.”

“Yes, you did, but you did not explain the ramifications of such a thing. How would the King or I be expected to know?”

“I don’t know, you seemed happy enough to jump to conclusions about what that means on your own.” 

“Hm,” Clarus says, saying nothing. The handgun appears in his hands once more, a bright burst of blue light heralding its appearance. He walks to the far wall and searches through a bin, pulling out-- something. It appears to be two ovalur objects attached by a think, yet wide, strip. Clarus walks back and hands it to Cor. 

“These go over your ears,” Cor says. “It’s to protect them.”

“Yeah,” NH-01987 says. He does not know what armor the thin covering would provide, but-- well, it does not matter. If Cor wants him to equip the-- whatever they are-- then NH-01987 will equip them. Cor moves to place the armor over NH-01987’s ears when he is interrupted. 

“Don’t you think it would be prudent to tell the boy what we expect from him before placing the muffler on?” 

Cor stares at Clarus, his eyes empty, but says nothing. He-- displeasure comes off of Cor like waves. NH-01987 would like it if there were some way he could assist, but he has already been doing all he can. He does not know what more Cor wants from him. 

“You are going to shoot from here,” Clarus says, pointing to a painted line in the dirt below him, “when I give you this signal.” Clarus extends his index finger. “You will shoot five times, then stop and place _Quicksilver_ \-- the gun-- on the floor. Do you understand?”

NH-01987 nods; yes, he understands it very well. Clarus’s instructions are-- clear, concise. 

“Good,” Clarus says, and hands NH-01987 the gun. Cor then places the armor over NH-01987’s ears, and--

NH-01987 can not hear. The world is-- everything is-- there is nothing, but he can see, so there is. There has to be. NH-01987 can see Cor, who looks down at him and grabs Bobo’s soft arm. NH-01987 releases his tight hold on the chocobo and watches as he is lifted up, away, out of reach. Clarus replaces the warmth of Bobo with the cold steel of the gun. _Quicksilver_ , NH-01987 thinks to himself. He has never seen a gun that has a name before. The gun is leeching the warmth from his hands, though they  tingle in the sun’s light. 

NH-01987 approaches the line and clicks the safety of the gun off. He lifts _Quicksilver_ with his right hand and takes aim. The gun is lighter than he is accustomed to, but it is not hard for NH-01987 to adjust. 

One breath in, one breath out. 

NH-01987 squeezes the trigger. The gun kicks up in his hand, the recoil much lighter than NH-01987 is used to. He repeats the process four more times. He can not tell if he hit the target. 

_Quicksilver_ , NH-01987 thinks once more as he places the gun on the ground. Cor and Clarus walk forward, Cor removing the armor from NH-01987’s head and Clarus picking _Quicksilver_ up off of the ground. It dissolves into blue light. NH-01987 feels-- unhappy, to see it disappear. It was-- its name made NH-01987-- full? Complete? NH-01987 can not describe the feeling. There was also something else, something that made his blood-- his chest-- burn, with something. It did not make him happy. 

Cor and Clarus are so silent, NH-01987 almost does not realize that the noise-cancelling armor has been taken off. NH-01987 squints at the target, trying to see how he performed, but it is too far away. 

“Five bullseyes,” Clarus says, looking at Cor. 

“Five bullseyes,” Cor says. 

Clarus turns his attention to NH-01987. “The doctor said you needed glasses. Was that a lie?” 

“No,” NH-01987 says. He does need glasses. Cor said so. 

“Then how did you shoot five bullseyes?”

“I am proficient with guns.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” Clarus says. “How do you manage to aim?”

“I-- there is more than sight. There are other factors.”

“Oh?” Clarus says. “How so?” 

“The-- target is over there,” NH-01987 points to the target, “Approximately fifteen feet away. If I am approximately the same height as the target-- four feet, or forty-eight inches-- then from where I am standing to the top of the target is about fifteen and a half feet. And the center of the target--”

“That’s enough,” Clarus says. NH-01987 fights the urge to pull his shoulders forward, keeping his stature straight. Clarus is not Cor. “As I understand it, you aim by computing various numbers to find the correct angle to aim?”  
“Yes, sir,” NH-01987 says. 

“How quickly can you do these calculations?”

“I do not--”

“What is the square root of three?”  
“One point seven three two zero--”

“That’s enough.” NH-01987 silences himself. 

“Clarus, you’ve done enough for today. Let the kid go home.”

“Marshal, there’s still--”  
“Yeah, I get it, there’s so much more you want to check out, but the kid’s-- Clarus, he’s saying ‘sir’ again.”

Clarus quiets for a moment, then says, “Very well. I will call you to set up another appointment.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling them now?” Clarus says nothings, but straightens his posture and walks away. 

Next to NH-01987, Cor says, “He’s gonna go take all of his frustrations out on the Kingsglaive recruits, I know it.”

“Yeah,” NH-01987 says. Cor smiles, half of his mouth quirking up. He puts his hand on NH-01987’s head and rubs it. It makes NH-01987 happy. 

Cor stops, “We should probably get you out of the sun, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Cor leads NH-01987 back the way they entered. The entire time, NH-01987 stares at Bobo, who is held securely in Cor’s arms. They walk down the hall in silence.

“So, you’re a math genius?”

“I do not know what a genius is.”

“Oh, uh, it’s someone who’s good at something. In your case, that’d be math, and uh, shooting, I guess.” 

“Oh,” NH-01987 says. He feels that his eyebrows are pushed together and mouth turned slightly down in a frown. 

“What’s wrong?” Cor asks. He looks down at NH-01987, who looks back up. 

NH-01987 bites his lip. 

“Oh, shoot, is it Bobo? Here, sorry, I completely forgot I was holding him.” Cor offers Bobo to NH-01987, who readily accepts him. The chocobo is heavy in his hands, heavy like a gun, like _Quicksilver_ \--

“Why does a gun have a human name?” NH-01987 did not know that this was a question he would like to ask until the words forced themselves from his lips, made themselves know to both him and Cor. 

“Uh, people name guns and weapons and all sorts of different things because it helps distinguish between models, or because people get attached to them.”

“Oh,” NH-01987 says. “Are you attached to me?” Cor starts a bit, then laughs, though the laugh sounds stilted and-- not right. Cor’s eyes are wide in a clear expression of panic and-- NH-01987 miscalculated. 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Cor’s answer, despite his previous fear, does not sound forced at all. It seems almost easy for Cor to say.

NH-01987 bites his lip. “Do you think-- because I was made to be a weapon, and you are a person--”

“You are a person too.”

“Yes, but you have been a person for longer, so do you think that because you are attached to me, I could have a-- human name?”

“Of course, kid. What name do you want?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Is there anything that stood out to you? Anything at all?”

NH-01987 swallows. “The name-- _Quicksilver_. It fit. The gun, and I am good at-- machinery and firearms.”

“You want to name yourself after a gun?” 

“I-- would be-- it would make me happy to have--”

“Listen, Quicksilver is fine, it’s just-- would you rather have a normal Lucian name? I’m not saying Quicksilver is bad, it’s just something that’ll get you some stares later in life.”

“What is a normal Lucian name?” 

“Well, most Lucian names mean something in Ancient Lucian. Like my name, Cor Leonis? Apparently it means ‘Heart Lion’ or something in it.”

NH-01987 bites his lip, then asks, “What is Quicksilver in Ancient Lucian?”

“Good question,” Cor says, and pulls out his small, rectangular communications device. He taps on it a few times. “Quicksilver in Ancient Lucian is ‘Prompto Argentum.” Of course, that’s only if you seperate ‘quick’ and ‘silver,’ but its got a nice ring to it.” 

Prompto Argentum. 

“I like it.”

Prompto Argentum.

It fits in his mouth the way guns fit in his hands; it is-- right. Fitting. It fits into the empty slot that is--

Prompto Argentum. 

He follows Cor out of the Citadel, into the car, back to the apartment, and for the first time in his life Prompto Argentum comes home. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cor: "so whaddya want to name yourself?"  
> prompto: "gun."  
> cor: "i'm sorry?"  
> prompto: "gun."


	8. roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we start to grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dfslajf sorry for the long wait! happy holidays too! this has been a long time coming, but it came! i'm so tired y'all. i'll be taking a short break during the holidays, but the next chapter should still be posted sometime january!
> 
> i hope everyone has/had a great hanukkah, kwanzaa, christmas, new years, and anything else i might've forgot to mention!
> 
> i love my girl [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori/pseuds/phori)

Prompto considers his new name the short drive home. He thinks about it at night, when he crawls under the blanket to sleep next to Cor. He considers it so much that his name hardly sounds like words anymore. He wonders if the-- if his name becoming something less is because a Magitek unit is speaking it, not a human. It makes NH-01987 happy nevertheless, he thinks, holding Bobo close to his chest. He thinks it would be nice if the chocobo could say his name, affirm that he is, but Bobo does not. That is-- acceptable, Prompto thinks as he drifts off to sleep. 

A month-- a month is anywhere from twenty-eight to thirty-one days, Cor tells him-- passes. Apparently, when Cor-- found him, it was near the end of the tenth month, October. It is now the middle of the eleventh month, November. Prompto thinks the way the months are named is confusing-- the information he learned from the instruction--  _ books _ Cor brought home tells him that ‘oct’ means eight, therefore should October not be the eighth month? When Prompto asks Cor this, Cor laughs and says, “Yeah, it’s pretty messed up, huh? Apparently there was this old dead guy who changed the calendar-- added a few months, just because he could for the most part.”

(“Oh,” Prompto says. He does not understand.)

The advance of time changes very little for NH-01987. Cor is gone more; Prompto is not accustomed to not having constant supervision, but he understands that Cor is a very important person, and Prompto is not high priority. 

One day in November, Cor returns home looking unhappy. He walks over to where Prompto is sitting, reading on the couch. 

“Hey, kid?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember, when I, uh, first picked you up, we stopped at a gas station right? And there was a lady there? Well, not a lady, barely a girl, but-- nevermind. Remember her?”

Prompto thinks back; he does remember the woman. He remembers that her hair was almost white, like the cold tundra of Niflheim. 

“Yeah.”

“Well, I told her-- that I’d call her? She was interested in you-- how you’d end up. I want to know if you’re okay with this.” 

“Yes.” 

“Alright, she might want to talk to you. Is it okay if I let her do that?” 

“Yes.” Prompto holds Bobo close to his chest. It is fine. It is for Cor, so it is fine. Cor puts his hand on Prompto’s head and ruffles his inch-long hair. Prompto never knew that hair grew that fast.

Cor pulls out his phone and a small piece of paper. There is a series of tones, and the phone begins to ring. Prompto adjusts his hearing so that he can listen to what the woman has to say. He does not want her to say anything that might-- cause Cor distress.

The phone goes off several times, until Prompto hears a distinctive click and, “ _Who is this?_ ” 

“Cor Leonis,” Cor answers. There is a pause on the other end of the phone. 

“ _Well I’ll be damned. Never actually thought you were gonna follow through-- Biggs! Wedge! Get your asses away from the--”_ A loud sound emits from the phone, and Prompto flinches back, holding Bobo even tighter. “ _Idiots,_ ” the woman says, but her voice carries no trace of disappointment.

Cor puts his hand on his forehead and frowns. “I don’t have all day, Commodore Highwind.” 

“ _Hell, it’s just Aranea now. I don’t have all day though, so how’s the kid doing?_ ”

“He’s-- good.”

“ _Hasn’t tried to kill anyone yet?_ ”

“No. If you want to talk to him you can,” Cor says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

“ _You have him with you? It’s been a month--_ holy shit. _I can’t believe this!”_ the woman says, and laughs. “ _Cor the Immortal, playing dad to a little Nif experiment. Shit, the boys are gonna love this._ ”

“Highwind--”

“ _Cool your chocobos there, I’m just having some fun. Yeah, I’ll talk to the kid._ ” Cor swears beneath his breath, holding the phone to his shoulder. 

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Prompto nods and reaches for the phone. 

Prompto puts his phone up to his ear, remaining silent. 

“ _You there, kid?_ ” 

He swallows. “Yes.” 

“ _Hey, look at that. It really is you._ ”

“I am-- me. I am Prompto.”

“ _That your name? Prompto?”_

“I-- yes.” 

“ _Kinda a dweeby name if you ask me, but oh well. Did the big guy-- sorry, Cor-- name you?”_

“No.” 

“Did you name yourself?” 

“Yes.”

“ _Huh. Good on you. I wasn’t sure how well you’d fit in with them normal folk, y’know?_ ”

“Yes.” 

There is a bark of laughter. “ _Sounds about right. Say, I didn’t tell you my name, did I?”_

“It is Aranea Highwind.” 

“ _Got it in one, kid. Say, you gotta tell me: how’s life in Lucis?_ ”

Prompto hardly takes a moment to answer. “It is-- very good. It is very big and there are a lot of people, and I do not know what--” Prompto cuts himself off, realizing that it is not Cor to whom he is talking.

Aranea is silent. When she talks again, it is as though something in her voice has-- melted, no longer cold, unyielding ice. “ _That’s-- really good. I’m happy for you, yeah?_ ”

“Yeah.” 

“ _Look Prompto, you’re-- good, so a word of advice?”_

“Yeah?”

“ _Don’t ever forget where you came from, but don’t let it define you, hear? When you get older and understand what happened to you, it’s gonna be hard to-- reconcile those parts of you but-- shit, listen to me getting all sappy. Kids--”_ Aranea is cut off by a lower voice from her side of the phone. 

_“Miss Highwind!_ ” a voice calls out. “ _We need you! Biggs is getting overrun by--”_

_“Aw shit, sorry kid, gotta go. Make sure you call back, yeah?”_

“Yeah,” Prompto says, but Aranea has already hung up. He turns to Cor and relinquishes hold of the phone. 

“You like her, don’t you,” Cor asks, but it is not a question. Prompto nods. Aranea was-- different. Though he did not talk to her long, Prompto feels that she is-- easy to understand. She was cold, her words sounding harsh but Prompto thinks-- thinks that she said what she felt and nothing else. Prompto does not really know. He is not good at understanding others yet, but Cor tells him that there is time. Cor always tells him that he ‘has time,’ but never specifies the exact quantity. Prompto asked him once, but Cor only said that, “it isn’t an exact amount of time, it just means-- there’s no need to rush, alright?”

Contrary to Cor’s words, time flies by fast and Prompto feels that now, more than ever, there is a need to hurry, to apply himself. It is-- frustrating, the dictionary tells him-- how slow he seems to be moving as everything around him outspeeds him. 

In the time that has passed, Prompto received a bed for him and him alone. He will not say how much he wishes he was next to Cor, because Cor gave the bed to him for a reason, and Prompto-- Prompto is very grateful for everything Cor does.

Prompto also went to a different kind of doctor, one Cor calls an ‘Optometrist.’ The optometrist sat Prompto in a chair, then had him push his face against a device that either made his vision blurry or clear. The optometrist then proceeded to very quickly shift the lens of the device and ask Prompto which lens appeared clearer. It was so fast that Prompto could hardly tell the difference, so he was required to replay his memory and tell the optometrist the correct answer, who would nod and repeat the process. 

At the end of the examination, the optometrist told Cor that Prompto had an “astigmatism” in his left eye and would need-- something that Prompto did not understand. Cor then asked if Prompto could get “colored contacts”-- Prompto did not and does not understand how physical touch could be colored-- to hide his natural eye color. Prompto understood that red was not most humans’ natural eye color, and while his had gone from glowing to a more flat red, he wanted it gone. He had brought it up to Cor once, who took on a thoughtful look and told Prompto that he would see what he could do. It was then that Cor called the optometrist and had Prompto examined. 

“I don’t recommend contacts for one so young,” the optometrist said. 

“Yeah, but he’s gonna want ‘em anyway. Already said he did. He’s a responsible kid, I trust him.” Those simple words, no matter how many times repeated, would always make Prompto’s chest feel light and a smile would tug at his lips, unbidden. 

The optometrist acquiesced, and Prompto exited the building with a new pair of eye coverings. A thin, clear film now covered his eyes, and the difference was _incredible_. Prompto did not know that it was possible for a defective unit like him to see so well. He thought that it will make aiming easier in the future. 

In addition to clearing his vision, the ‘contacts,’ as Cor said they were called, also provided Prompto with a much needed disguise; the contacts had a slight blue tint to them, and when he applied them to his eyes, they turned his irises a bright purple. They were still not-- Prompto does not know any humans with purple eyes, but they were not red any longer. 

Some things would never disappear, like his ports and valves and data downloads, but Prompto was learning how to be Prompto and not NH-01987.

The biggest and perhaps most drastic change was the change in housing. Cor explained to Prompto that the new living arrangements were-- better for him. Prompto was a growing kid, he explained, and thus he needed a suitable place to live. Kids did not want to live in stuffy bachelor pads next to their (and here, Cor stumbled over his words) guardian’s work. Prompto, whose desires went against what kids wanted, said nothing and watched as he left behind the sofa, the television, the cooking utensils-- everything. Only Bobo remained by his side, the chocobo a bright yellow testament to the times he had spent in the apartment with Cor.

“What do you think?” Cor asks. 

Prompto looks over the new house, observing its empty rooms and minimal lighting. “It is big.” 

“Yeah, it sure is. But it’s better though, more room. More for us,” Cor says, and gently hits his arm against Prompto’s side. 

“Us?” Prompto asks-- he thought that this was his home now. That Cor is-- ridding himself of an incomplete product. 

“Yeah, us. What, did you think I was just going to let a kid live by himself? Especially if that kid is you?”

“I am-- self-sustaining,” Prompto said, but the words felt wrong on his tongue. He did not want to be saying them, but if Cor wished to live on his own Prompto would not be the one to stop him. He held Bobo close to his chest. 

Cor laughed with a hint of-- discontentment. “I know you are, but you aren’t getting rid of me that easily.” 

Prompto turned to Cor, Bobo held limply at his side. “I would-- I do not want to get-- to have you leave.”

Cor rubbed Prompto’s hair, which had grown out even more.

“I’m glad.”

 

* * *

 

Prompto keeps calling Aranea, starting first one month after their initial contact. Prompto asked Cor for permission to call her, which he gave alongside his phone. The phone rings once, twice, three times before it connects to Aranea. 

“ _Marshal?_ ”

“Prompto.”

“ _Prompto…? Oh, the kid?_ ”

“Yes.”

“ _Oh hell, good to hear from you! Hey, it’s December isn’t it?_ ”

Prompto is somewhat confused by the non-sequitur, but answers, “Yes.”

“ _Shit, it must be starting to get cold in Lucis, huh? Must remind you of ho-- of Niflheim._ ”

“It is snowing,” Prompto answers, looking out the window. From the couch, Cor snorts. 

“That’s putting it mildly,” he mutters.

_“Sounds like Niflheim to me,”_ Aranea laughs. “ _Do you like the snow?_ ”

Prompto considers the question. The snow is not warm, it is freezing, but there is still something-- Cor took Prompto outside the previous day, having equipped him with a large jacket and thick pants. Out in the front lawn, Cor threw a ball of snow at Prompto, then encouraged him to retaliate. 

( _“Come on,” Cor said as he smiled, “let’s have a snowball fight.” _)__

____

Cor taught Prompto how to compact the snow into a ball, and throw it (something he was already quite proficient in), then encouraged him to throw it back. Prompto complied, and in the cold of the snow there was a small bit of-- warmth, completion, that filled his chest as he saw the ball hit Cor square in the chest. Prompto initially worried that he had hit Cor too hard, as he was doubled over, but when Prompto rushed forward to assist and apologize, Cor straightened himself and laughed. Prompto smiled, relieved that Cor was not in any danger because of him.

“Yes,” Prompto answers, “I like the snow.” 

“ _Huh. Who’da thunk it? Nif kid likes the snow; that’s a first._ ”

“Yeah.” 

Aranea sighs. “ _Kid, I really gotta teach you about sarcasm._ ”

Prompto knows what sarcasm was: the dictionary defined it as, “the use of irony to mock or convey contempt.” He then had to recall what irony meant, as the word was confusing to him. Prompto thinks it would be much easier if people said what they meant without-- _irony_ or _sarcasm_ twisting the meaning of their words. 

“Yeah,” Prompto agrees. 

Aranea laughs breathily. “ _Alright Prom, I’m glad you’re not saying ‘yes’ and ‘yes ma’am’ anymore, but you gotta-- gotta find something other than yeah to say._ ”

“But I thought-- it is an acceptable answer.”

“ _Yeah, sure, it’s an ‘acceptable’ answer, but it doesn’t say much, hear? You’re just agreeing, not adding anything of your own. You gotta talk more, kid._ ”

“Oh. I did not think-- I thought I am expected to be silent unless-- asking a question, or responding to a question, or…” Now that Prompto thinks about it, Cor does appear to like it when he talks. 

“ _Yeah, exactly. Keep doing stuff like that. Nothing wrong with being quiet, but when you get older people are gonna walk right over you if you keep that up._ ”

“Oh.” Prompto does not want to be stepped on.

“ _Yeah, oh. Listen kid, I gotta run-- I smell Biggs making dinner and it’s making me hungry, so talk to you again soon, okay? Don’t be a stranger._ ”

Prompto does not know how he could be a stranger, as he and Aranea are closely acquainted, but he says, “Yeah,” regardless, then realizes his mistake. “I mean-- yes-- no? I won’t.”

“ _Good job_ ,” Aranea says, then terminates the line of communication. Prompto hands the phone back to Cor, who is smiling. 

“Who would have that the Dragoon of the Niflheimian empire had a soft spot for kids,” Cor says, standing up and pushing his shoulders back, causing small ‘crack’s to emit from his back. 

“I really need to talk to Clarus about getting you a phone. You won’t use it for any nefarious purposes will you?” There is a smile on Cor’s face that indicates that his words are not entirely serious. Prompto thinks this means that Cor trusts him not to-- use a phone for ‘nefarious purposes’, but he is not sure. 

“Yeah-- I mean, I will not do anything-- bad with the phone.”

Cor rubs Prompto’s hair. “Yeah, I know kid. Say, where’d Bobo go?” Prompto points to the kitchen table where Bobo sits on top of Cor’s paperwork; Cor had explained that because of his position in the Lucian government and military, he had to do a lot of work and would have to bring it home so that he wouldn’t work through the night. He still stayed at the Citadel longer than he did when Prompto first-- arrived, but at least he got to see him in the mornings and at night. Monica-- who told Prompto to call her Aunt Monica-- came over quite often, one time bringing a man named Dustin along with her. Prompto does not know know how he feels about Dustin.

“He wanted to help you.”

“Oh, well,” Cor says, turning to face the pile of papers, “Thank you Bobo.”

Black eyes shine in the kitchen light. The chocobo remains perfectly still. “You’re welcome,” Prompto answers in lieu of Bobo.

 

* * *

 

A week passes and Cor brings a tree into the house. 

“Why?” Prompto asks.

“Why what?”

“Why is there a tree inside?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. That’s because it’s the Celebration of the Six-- well, five really, but six sounds better, doesn’t it?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Anyways, it’s a holiday in Lucis where people decorate their houses-- well, it’s really supposed to honor the Astrals, but it’s been commercialized so much that it’s really just about giving and getting gifts. See, the tree-- I’m not actually sure where that tradition came from, but you’re supposed to put a star or a Messenger on top and that-- says something? To Bahamut or Shiva, I can’t remember.”

Prompto blinks once, twice. “What?”

Cor laughs, “Yeah, it’s a bit much. Anyways, all you really need to know is that it lasts five days and people celebrate it by giving gifts to each other and by decorating trees.”

“Oh.” Prompto says, “Okay.” 

“Anyways, I convinced Clarus to give me the week off, so you and I get to-- spend some time together. Does that sound good?”

“Yes!” Prompto has no control over the word that comes out of his mouth, but Cor laughs regardless. 

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“I am-- glad to hear that you will be staying longer. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry I haven’t been home as much. I know Monica and Dustin have been checking up on you-- how are they?”

“I like them,” Prompto says, “but I like you more.” 

Cor goes dead silent, then laughs. “Thanks, kid. Wish I was the person you think I am.”

“I don’t want you to be someone else.” 

Cor goes silent again, then walks away from the tree and rubs Prompto’s hair. “What did I do to deserve a kid like you?”

“You took me from the facility and brought me here.”

“...Not quite what I meant, but good effort, Prompto.” Prompto has learned that these words mean that he tried, and failed, but Cor is not mad. Prompto does not smile, but walks to Cor’s side and leans into his warmth. Bobo, held safely in his arms, adds extra-- security to Prompto, and Cor ruffles his hair. 

“Now, let’s see what we can do about this tree, huh?”

 

* * *

 

The tree is placed in an upright position and Prompto and Cor spend a good part of the day (and night) decorating it with what Cor calls ornaments and tinsel. 

“The ornaments,” Cor says, “well, pretty sure it’s just a way for Corridorspot to make money off of us, but hey I’m buying into it so what right do I have to complain?”

“Yeah.” Cor laughs and continues to string popcorn through a thin wire. He holds it out to Prompto, who takes it and replicates the action. 

It takes a few hours, but eventually the tree is suitable decorated to Cor’s standards. At the finish, Cor holds out a silver star to Prompto. 

“You want to put the star on the tree?”

“Yeah.” Prompto accepts the star and wonders how he will scale the tree without damaging any of the ornaments and other various decorations. Before he can come up with a plan, Cor lifts him from under his armpits and has him at eye level with the tree’s top. Prompto leans forward and carefully places the star on the most vertical and highest branch, removing his hand carefully so the tree does not fall and injure Cor. The star stays in place, and Cor places Prompto back on the ground. He stares up at the top of the tree. It is much bigger than he is, and could easily crush him, but he does not feel-- uncomfortable. It is potentially dangerous, but it makes Prompto happy. 

He wonders if this is how Cor feels about him. 

 

* * *

 

The week with Cor passes faster than Prompto wants it to. Monica visits and brings a circular food item with bread-like consistency. It does not taste like bread though, as Prompto knows the flavor he is tasting is known as ‘sweet.’ 

“It’s an old family tradition,” Monica says, “to eat Land of Nod on the first day of the Celebration.” Cor excuses himself from the table to, “take a piss,” and Monica shakes her head, smiling. 

“Between you and me,” she says once he has exited the room, “Cor’s never really had someone like you in his life before.” She then tilts her head, thinking. “He did travel with the King and his friends when he was younger, but they… don’t speak as much anymore. The King and the Shield-- Clarus-- are the only ones nearby and still talking to him and they’re both as busy as he is.” 

Prompto says nothing, staring at the food on his plate and futilely attempting to separate a smaller piece of the confection with his fork. He thinks if he had friends, he would-- hold onto them with everything he had, be whoever they wanted him to be. 

Sometimes, when Prompto watches the television with Cor, they show people and their friends. Only once did Prompto ask what a friend was, after the dictionary failed to provide an adequate answer. Cor went quiet, apologized, then walked out of the room. Later that night, while attempting to sleep in the new bed, Prompto heard Cor talking to Clarus. Cor was not happy, and Clarus did not sound happy either. 

Prompto does not think friends should be angry at each other, but thinks no more of the conversation. 

“Do you think I’ll have friends one day?” he asks Aranea that night over the phone. 

“ _Hell yeah, little man. Once the stuffy bureaucrats with sticks up their asses realize what a cool dude you are and let you out to play with the other kids, you’ll be the coolest kid on the block._ ”

“I do not think that is possible. Cool is not quantifiable, and there are a lot of children on the street that Cor and I live on.”

“ _Well, you’re pretty cool already. Bet most kids can’t say they get to run laps with the trainees for the Kingslaive._ ” That is true. On Thursdays, when Cor is responsible for training the recruits, Prompto joins him and partakes in the physical activities offered. He always thought that getting older meant increased stamina and strength, but for the most part the Kingsglaive trainees have proved him wrong. 

“There are no other people under the age of eighteen,” Prompto affirms. “I am the only one.”

“ _See? Coolest kid already.”_

Prompto nods, then, realizing Aranea can not see him, says, “Yeah.” 

She laughs. 

 

* * *

 

The Celebration of the Six passes faster than Prompto had hoped. It is already the night before the Day of Bahamut, which Cor tells him is the last. Cor bought him a book that explained the traditions behind the Celebration of the Six, and explained what each day was for. 

The first day is the Day of Bahamut, the Astral of Steel and Prophecy, who gave birth to the world and shaped the first human. 

The second day is the Day of Titan, the Astral of Earth and Endurance, who shaped the earth with his mighty hands and taught humans how to manipulate the land to their advantage. 

The third day is the Day of Ramuh, the Astral of Lightning and Wisdom, who bestowed upon humans the ability to learn and improve, as well as question. 

The fourth day is the Day of Leviathan, the Astral of Water and Rage, who showed humans the cruelty of the world and taught them how to weather harsh storms. 

The fifth day is the Day of Shiva, the Astral of Ice and Hope, who thawed the steel hearts of humans, granting them emotions. 

The final day was once the Day of Ifrit, the Astral of Fire and Passion, who alongside his lover, Shiva, granted humans the ability to feel. The sixth day was renamed the Day of the Messengers after Ifrit’s betrayal, and became a celebration of all the minor Astrals who inhabit the cosmos. 

Prompto can not understand a word of it and does not want to. Not to say that what Cor believes in is-- wrong, necessarily, he just cannot understand why people treat the Astrals like-- like Commanders. Their deference-- he just can not understand it. Cor has said that the Astrals are real, that Messengers are not common, but present, and that Niflheim actually killed Shiva. Prompto thinks that is sad. Of the Astrals, he preferred Shiva the most. Her eyes looked-- warm. 

Cor tells him that the patron Astral of the royal family of Lucis is Bahamut. Prompto does not like Bahamut. The steel that glitters about his body reminds Prompto of the cold halls of the facility. 

No, Prompto does not like Bahamut. 

The final day of the Celebration of the Six, Prompto wakes up to soft sunlight filtering into his room. His skin tingles in its warmth, so he exits the bed and stretches, finding a more covered spot in the room. He changes into the clothes Cor previously bought for him, all of which are various shades of orange and yellow. Prompto told Cor only once that those were the colors that made him the happiest-- they reminded him of Bobo, after all. 

Speaking of, the chocobo rests on his bed, so Prompto picks him up and carries him gently out of the room. He walks down the wooden floor of the hallway, stopping in what Cor called ‘the living room.’ The living room is-- different. The tree they decorated is lit up with lights, and beneath it are a myriad of wrapped boxes. Prompto stares for a moment, Bobo dangling loosely from his hand, but turns his attention to the kitchen, where he hears the telltale sounds of inhabitation.

Cor is in the kitchen at the kettle. 

“Oh, hey kid,” Cor says as he pours some boiling water into a cup shaped like a chocobo’s head. “I didn’t think you’d be up-- I wanted to surprise you with some hot chocolate.”

Prompto blinks and walks over to Cor, who stirs in milk to the warm drink he has made. 

“Can I be of assistance?”

“Here, just enjoy this. That’s how you can help. Wait for me at the table, okay?” Prompto nods and makes his way to the table, careful not to spill any of the steaming hot water on Bobo. He does not want Bobo to get injured, after all. Hot water used to be a thing of pain, and still can be, if not handled carefully, but now it is mostly a sign of warmth-- of home.

He sips at the hot chocolate slowly. He can feel il as it slides down his esophagus, warming his chest as it goes. It is very pleasant. 

Cor sits down at the table with him, holding a cup of coffee. Prompto tried coffee once. He did not like it. 

“So, happy Celebration Prompto.”

“Happy Celebration Cor,” he parrots. 

“So, you uh, see the tree?” 

“Yes. Why were there all those bags and boxes underneath it?” 

Cor winces. “Those are presents. It’s tradition that on the last day of the Celebration, you give ‘em to people you care about.”

“What are presents?” 

“They’re normal items like a book, or a music album that you disguise in wrapping paper or tissue paper so the other person doesn’t know what it is until they open it.” 

“Oh,” Prompto says, “I-- it would have made me happy to know. You deserve a present.”

Cor ruffles Prompto’s hair. “I already got the best gift of all, Prompto.”

“Are you allowed to tell me what it is and who it is from?”

Cor laughs. “It’s you, kid. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. I know I’m not-- that work takes up a lot of my time, but I think-- we do okay together, don’t we?”

“Yes!” Prompto exclaims. “If I were with anyone else, I would be sad. It would be lonely without you.” Cor gives Prompto a half smile. “One thing I do not understand is who all the presents are for. Would it not be easier to gift them directly as opposed to leaving them under your tree?” 

“Prompto, the presents are for you.” 

Prompto goes silent, processing the information. For him? But why-- he has not accomplished anything extraordinary. He is a drain of Cor’s resources and can not even see properly without contacts-- that Cor paid for. 

“Why?” he asks eventually. 

“Because I care about you. You’re my-- ward, and I enjoy having you around. You’ve never celebrated the-- ha-- Celebration before, so I wanted to make it-- you deserve a lot more than what I can give you.”

Prompto still does not fully understand, but he thinks this is a reward of some kind for-- doing well? He does not know. 

“Okay. I wish-- I wish I could have gotten you something. I care for you too.”

Cor exhales, smiling. “I already said, having you around  _ is  _ my gift. You don’t need to worry. Say, how about we finish our drinks and you start opening some presents, huh? Monica’s coming over later. Dustin’s not coming, he’s on the other side of the city with family, can’t fault him that.

“Do you think Monica will bring the Land of Nod again?” Prompto really liked the Land of Nod. Its texture, taste, everything about it made it very good. 

“Most likely not, ‘cause I got the recipe from her and you have to prepare it overnight, which means that it’d take a while to bake.”

“Okay,” Prompto says and finishes his hot chocolate. Cor sips at his coffee and rises from the chair. 

“C’mon kid, let’s go open presents. Prompto nods and takes Cor’s cup, bringing it over to the sink and preparing to wash it. 

“Hey, you don’t need to worry about that,” Cor says, “I’ll take care of it later. For now, just leave ‘em in the sink, okay?” 

Prompto nods, depositing the cups in the sink and walking with Cor into the living room, Bobo held securely under his arm, where the tree occupies the majority of the space. Cor bends down in front of the tree and grabs a present from it. The present is a box covered in yellow paper with chocobos on it. It is approximately the length and height of a book, though its width is significantly greater.

“Go ahead and open it,” Cor says. 

“How?” 

“Just rip up the paper, but uh, try not to damage the box underneath. I mean, if you do, it’ll be fine, but, well.”

Prompto nods, gently picking at the taped down end of the paper, plying the sticky substance off slowly. It lifts, and he repeats the process for the other side, then unfolds the paper revealing the box underneath. 

The box is white, with a lid on it. Prompto looks to Cor for confirmation, and takes the lid off after Cor nods encouragingly. Contained within is a cup-- a mug in the shape of a chocobos head. Its tail forms the handle, despite the mug representing only the head, and its eyes are large, blue and unrealistic, but Prompto feels a warmth in his chest regardless. It is like he is drinking hot chocolate all over again. 

“Thank you,” Prompto whispers, tears threatening to spill. It is all too much. Never once in his life did he think someone would bother to-- try and please a defective unit-- _person_ \-- like him, give him objects just to make him happy. It is so different; once, difference was a bad thing, but now it is-- welcomed, appreciated. Prompto loves how different things are, how complex and confusing and not understanding (though he hates seeming less knowledgeable than he is), and learning, and books, not instruction manuals-- it is all very, very, good. 

Cor’s face is turned away from Prompto, his hand scratching the back of his head. “Hell kid, this is-- it’s not-- you don’t need to cry.”

Prompto sniffs and attempts to wipe his tears away after placing the chocobo mug next to Bobo, who presses into Prompto’s side. “I’m sorry,” Prompto says, “I just-- no one has ever-- I never thought--” He interrupts himself by wiping his eyes. He has said enough already. 

“There’s more,” Cor says gently, and Prompto nods, biting his lower lip. He brings Bobo with him as he approaches the tree once more, periodically bringing a hand up to his face to wipe away the tears that threaten to spill over. Prompto selects a small present under the tree, this one wrapped in a bag with paper spilling out of the top and returns to Cor. He notices that the mug-- he’ll need a name for it, it is a chocobo after all-- has leaned over on the living room couch, so Prompto picks it up and gently places it on the table after tucking Bobo under his arm. 

He sits down once more and Cor encourages him to open the present. He is just as careful as before, hesitant to tear the goldenrod paper that spills out of the red bag. As he takes it out, he folds it into small squares and puts it on the table for Cor to use later. He does not know what it could be used for other than making a present, but Cor used it once so he can definitely use it again. He repeats this process several times and reaches the object inside. It is a box that says ‘ _Pear aPhone XV plus._ ’ 

“What is this?” Prompto asks as he removes the lid from the small black box. Inside is-- a phone, larger than the one Cor has but the same black color. After getting reassurance from Cor in the form of a smile and nod, Prompto gently takes the phone out of the form-fitting container, and unwraps its plastic covering. It is so large that it barely fits in his hand. 

“I-- well, you’ve been using mine so much that I convinced Clarus that getting you one was safe. It’s an aPhone, the latest model. I upgraded my plan too so that you can call Aranea whenever, and you can download games and stuff to play whenever too. Its camera is supposed to be really good as well. I’ve noticed you like the books I have in the coffee table-- the one with the pictures from all over Lucis?-- and I thought you might like it if you could, y’know, make your own.” 

Photography is something Prompto learned he enjoyed shortly after the move to the house as opposed to the apartment. Cor had brought a book much larger than the standard size and told Prompto that, “I know you can’t leave the house too much right now and you must be feeling cabin fever so I, well, this is the closest I could get to-- the world outside Insomnia.” The pictures inside captivate him; there is so much of the world he has not seen. His favorite pictures are those of real life chocobos. Prompto did not know they come in different colors, though Cor informed him that all colors except gold and black are artificial. 

Prompto would like to meet a life-size chocobo one day. It’s not that Bobo is not enough for him, it is that Prompto-- Cor has let him know that it is okay to want more, to desire beyond what is immediately present.

“Thank you,” Prompto says. The process continues, and Prompto thinks there is very little he could desire beyond what Cor has given him today. He opens a new photography book, chocobo-themed pajamas (clothes that one sleeps in, he now knows), a book about the native birds of Lucis and where to find them, a pair of glasses (“So that you don’t have to wear contacts when you’re with someone you’re comfortable with,” Cor informs him), and so on. 

After all of the presents have been unwrapped, Cor helps Prompto set up his phone and enter his and Aranea’s number into it. 

“This way you don’t have to enter it every time,” Cor explains. Prompto nods. 

“What do you think of your first Celebration?” Cor asks later that night. 

“I wish I had gotten you a present,” Prompto says, the words almost a habit.

Cor sighs. “Why are you so hung up on getting me a present? I already told you you’re all I need.” 

“Yes, but-- I wish to make you happy. To give you the same joy you have given me; what you have given me is something that can never be repaid, but I wish to try.”

Cor says nothing, but moves closer to Prompto. He wraps an arm around Prompto’s shoulder. He is saying something without words, but Prompto does not trust himself to interpret the gesture. He is still so very bad at understanding-- people. 

“I am sorry,” Prompto says quietly, pulling Bobo up to cover his face as he leans into Cor’s side. “I am sorry that I do not understand what you are trying to tell me, but--”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Cor says, holding Prompto even firmer. “Listen, I know-- you want to be perfect, but that’s just not feasible. There’s no need to put yourself down or apologize because there’s something you don’t understand; it’s just like I said: not knowing is perfectly fine. You have all the time in the world to learn-- speaking of, I forgot I got you one more present.”

“Hm?” 

“I, well, it’s not really a present persay, but it’s-- I talked to Clarus, and got permission for you to enter school. You’re seven years old, yeah your past might be fu-- messed up, but you’re a good kid and you need to socialize with other kids your age. You’ll have to sign a thing consenting to not harming any of the other kids, even if they provoke you, and honestly I think part of it’s BS but it’s better than nothing, right?”

“Right,” Prompto agrees. “I will not cause any harm to anyone else,” he vows. It is a promise he intends to keep now that he knows how important promises are. To break one is to be the worst kind of person, something Prompto never intends to be. He will be the best person he can be, and even though that is inevitably worse than normal humans, it is what he can do. It is what he can be. 

He licks his lips, then asks, “What is school?” School has not yet come up in his research into-- well, everything. 

Cor pulls back, a look of disappointment on his face. “Oh, sorry Prompto. School is where kids your age go to learn.”

“But I can learn through books,” Prompto says, confused. He does not wish to refuse Cor’s gift, but he does not wish to inconvenience him any further than I already have, but he has no data on whether school would inconvenience Cor any more than staying and learning from books would.

“Yeah, but school lets you interact with other kids your age. You’ll be able to make friends.” 

“Friends?” Prompto asks, and suddenly he understands the full scope of Cor’s gift. He will have the chance to-- learn by example, not books. There will be others who will teach him how to act his age, something Cor has told him multiple times he needs to learn how to do. 

“Yeah, friends. People your age. Plus you get to learn stuff that’ll help you later than life-- more than just fighting and how to follow orders. You’ll get a chance to be yourself.”

Tears well up behind his eyes. “Thank you,” Prompto says, his voice weighed down with emotion. There is something sitting on his chest, something warm and soft and kind. Cor’s own warm arms envelope him in a hug.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s what you deserve, after all.” 

To deserve something is to be worthy of it. Prompto does not think he is worthy of Cor’s kindness, his warm smiles and warmer hugs. He does not think he is worthy of Aranea, with her cold demeanor but warm words. He is not worthy of Monica, her warm food and gentle talks. He is not worthy of school, the chance to make friends. 

Prompto knows this, but he will try his best to be worthy all the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cor: i'm never around. how do make up for this?  
> cor: wHo WaNtS pReSeNtS?
> 
> prompto: what's a present
> 
> cor: w h o o p s


	9. climb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompto goes to school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's me. i'm back and very tired. 
> 
> i love m'girl [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori/pseuds/phori)
> 
> also i wrote a [cowboy bebop 'fic'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17494799) last night when i should've been sleeping. check it out if you'd like.
> 
> i don't remember anything about elementary school.

School is not what Prompto expects it to be, despite him not expecting it to be anything. He supposes in some sense he did have some expectations; for one, he thought school would be similar to Cor’s home, a house filled with other children instead of a-- what Prompto is and his guardian. 

He is very wrong.

The first day of school, after Prompto signs and agrees to the necessary documents, Cor takes him and walks with him. 

“We gotta check you in at the front office,” Cor says, “Make sure all the necessary paperwork and stuff is good to go. You’ll be alright when I leave, right?”

“Yeah,” Prompto says. He is relieved that Cor will be leaving-- not that he wants Cor to leave!-- but so that Cor will not miss any important work on his behalf. 

They walk into a large building. The inside walls are painted a warm brown, and there is a woman sitting behind a large desk that wraps around her in a square. 

“Hello!” she greets. Prompto has the urge to check and make sure that his contacts are in. “What can I do for you?” 

“Uh, yeah, it’s Prompto’s first day of school you see, and he’s never been to school before-- extenuating circumstances, very confidential,” Cor says when he sees the woman’s raised eyebrows, “and I just wanted to make sure that everything was in order.” 

“Of course, may I have your last name?” The woman starts typing. 

“Mine’s Leonis but his is Argentum.” Her typing slows. 

“Leonis, as in Cor Leonis?”

“Er, yeah, but could we keep that on the down-low? I don’t want Prompto’s time at school to be influenced because of me.” The woman nods, her eyes still wide and eyebrows slightly raised. Prompto thinks she looks dazed. 

“Of course, Mr. Leonis,” she says, and returns to typing. “It seems Prompto has been successfully registered, though… hm.” 

“Is there a problem?” 

“No, but when I go to look at the necessary verifications-- such as there being proof of a  birth certificate-- the computer just brings up a picture of the royal seal. Is it because of the Prince?” 

“Oh, yeah. That’s uh, classified.” 

“Well. Alright then,” the woman says. “Other than that everything is good to go. Prompto’s teacher is Mrs. Docere. Would you like to walk with him over to C-96 to meet her?” 

Cor looks down at Prompto. “Do you want me to come along with you?” 

“I do not wish to take away any more time from you than I already have.” 

A gust of air escapes through Cor’s closed lips. “Pssh, you aren’t taking anything away. I’ll walk you down, get you settled in unless you really don’t want me there.”

“No! I do,” Prompto exclaims. His stomach turns; he feels that it is not right to give such bold exclamations in front of a stranger, but his mouth is faster than his mind. 

Cor, thankfully, laughs and offers his hand to Prompto, who takes it without hesitation. 

“C-96 you said?” 

The woman nods, “I’ll have to give you a visitor’s pass first, if you don’t mind.” 

“Not at all,” Cor says, and she pulls a piece of paper out of a folder and peels something small off. 

“Simply write your name there, and you’re good to go.” Cor does as he is instructed and writes his name down with a black pen-- no, marker-- the woman offered to him. 

“I hope your transfer goes smoothly, Prompto.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says, eyes wide and heart racing. He wets his lips, then bites down on his lower one. Talking to people is difficult, no matter how much practice he gets with Aranea and Monica and Dustin and Cor. There are some things that Prompto is not good at, no matter how hard he tries. 

Cor leads him away, gentle grabbing Prompto’s shoulders and steering him the proper direction. Prompto holds out a hand, which Cor accepts without a word. As they walk in deeper to the building, Prompto sees lots of other people sitting behind similar desks to the woman Cor just finished talking to. They pass them by quickly, and Cor leads Prompto through a door in the other side of the building that leads to the outside. Bright light blares down from above, nearly blinding him. Prompto does not think that the sun is normally this bright. 

“What room did she say it was again?” Cor asks, his hand used as a makeshift visor to block out the sun’s blinding rays as he looks at each of the small brown buildings in turn.

“C-96,” Prompto recalls. 

“Do you see a building with a big ‘C’ anywhere around here?” he asks, still scanning. 

Prompto sees a building with a ‘D’ on it; logic dictates that ‘C’ must be nearby, unless the school uses a completely different alphabet. 

He points to it. Cor squints and follows Prompto’s finger and nods. “Good idea. It’s probably near there.” Cor begins the walk to the aforementioned building, Prompto’s hand still held gently in his own. Once they are in front of the building with a ‘D’ on it, Prompto notices that the building to the left has a ‘C’ on it. Cor is already walking towards the building with a ‘C’ on it. 

“C-96,” Cor says, standing in front of the door to the aforementioned room. “You ready for this, kid?” 

“No,” Prompto says truthfully. It felt as though the second he stepped in front of that door, everything came crashing down. Someone must be standing on his shoulders, he thinks. It is the only explanation for the heaviness that weighs down on him and makes him want to sink into the ground. 

Cor puts a hand on Prompto’s back and gently pushes him inside the room as he opens the door. The moment the door is open, Prompto is assaulted by the loud noise. He instinctively moves behind Cor as he stops inside the room, seeking cover from the unrelenting onslaught of sound. 

A woman rings a bell in the front of the room and the room goes silent. “Now class, please welcome your new classmate! Please come up here and introduce yourself, Mister…” she trails off, squinting at a piece of paper on a podium, “Argentum?” Prompto notes that she pronounced his last name incorrectly. Not only does it sound wrong, but it _feels_ wrong.

“Argentum,” Cor corrects, and gestures for him to stand next to the woman. Prompto complies, and as he walks he feels the eyes of the entire room. It is strange, Prompto thinks to himself, observation did not used to cause him great distress. Of course, there always was a-- hole in the pit of his stomach, but that was not-- the same, was it?

Prompto fidgets with the hem of his bright yellow shirt with a stylized chocobo on it and murmurs, “My name is Pro--”

“I’m sorry honey, you’ll have to speak up,” the woman says cheerfully.

“Yes!” Prompto exclaims, a habit so deeply ingrained in him that he doubts it will ever truly disappear. “My name is Prompto Argentum.” He looks to the woman for confirmation that he has introduced himself to her standards. 

“And what’s something you enjoy doing, Prompto?” 

“Um, I like-- looking at pictures of chocobos.”

“Does anyone have any questions for Prompto?” A girl in the front of the room raises her hand. 

“Yes, Rogo?” 

“Why’s his eyes and hair so weird?” Prompto flinches. He feels the eyes of the room excluding Cor examining him, like he is-- 

He reminds himself not to think of the facility, he is in school, he should not be--

“That’s a very rude question, Rogo. How would you like it if Prompto asked you why your hair is black?” 

The girl shrugs. “I dunno.” 

The woman sighs. “Please apologize to Prompto.” 

“Sorry Prompto,” the girl intones; Prompto does not know what, but something in her voice makes him think that she does not truly mean what she says. He glances to Cor to gain instructions as to what he should do next. Cor mouths two words at him, which takes Prompto a few seconds to decipher. 

“It’s okay,” he says, head bowed and hands clenched together. He misses Bobo, but Cor told him that kids his age do not typically bring stuffed animals to school. 

“Besides,” Cor had said, “what if you lose him or get him dirty? You don’t want that, do you?” Prompto had hastily agreed, despite the lingering thought that said that there was a minimal chance of Prompto ever losing Bobo. 

Prompto shuffles over to Cor, who is still standing near one of the walls in the room. 

“Did I do alright?” he whispers. Cor rubs his hand through Prompto’s hair, not a response, but an answer all the same. 

“All right class, for the next ten minutes you can do anything, as long as you do it _quietly_. You may read a book, or draw, but no talking to your neighbor or yelling, okay?” 

“Yes Mrs. Docere,” the room says in unison. For a brief moment, the words are replaced by the identical “Yes, sir”s that would ring out in the training facility when ordered to do a task. School is not the training facility, however, so Prompto pushes the thought down. He does not need to be thinking about the facility. 

“Now get to work,” Mrs. Docere says with a smile, and the room erupts with noise. She sighs as she walks over to Cor, still smiling. 

“Is there anything I can help you with, Mr. Argentum?” 

“Huh? Mr-- oh, yes, that’s me, Prompto’s-- guardian. I need to talk to you about some paperwork that needs to be signed by you as a--” Cor glances at Prompto, who looks back, eyes wide, “--precautionary measure, so to speak. Quite honestly, I think it’s bullsh-- _nonsense_ , but if the King decrees then so it shall be.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

Cor shakes his head, “Sorry, I just-- in order for Prompto to go to school, you need to be aware of some things and-- contingency plans.” Cor looks like he’s biting into something extremely sour-- Prompto would know, Cor once convinced him to bite into a lemon. He would do it again if it means Cor would stay. 

Mrs. Docere narrows her eyes at Cor, her eyebrows pushing down into her eyes. “And what about Prompto makes it necessary that I have to have a ‘contingency plan’? Is it because he’s Niflheimian? I’ll have you know such discrimination is not welcome in my classroom.”

Prompto flinches back at the mention of his origins. He did not-- give it away, did he? Cor always tells him not to let anyone know he is-- _was_ an MT, so how did she know?

“Say it a little louder, will you?” Cor grumbles. “Nah, it’s nothing like that. It’s cause the kid’s got a story, and the Shield’s paranoid about having him too near the prince.”

“Mr. Caelum isn’t in my class?” 

“Like I said, it’s stupid.” Mrs. Docere hums noncommittally, then observes the document Cor handed to her. Her eyebrows push further down into her eyes behind her glasses, which she pushes up with one hand.

“This says, and I quote, ‘ _Should the person in question demonstrate threatening behavior, especially to other students, then the teacher (or whatever person of authority is present at the time) is obligated to contact the Shield of the King at XXX-XXXX.’_ ”

Cor grimaces. “It says that, huh.” It is not a question, Prompto notes. He does not understand why Cor is so upset with the conditions; it makes perfect sense. Prompto is a liability, a danger to all those around him. Children are the most vulnerable of all, so easy to trust and catch unawares, so untrained and unconditioned.

Prompto knows he is the same age as the children present around him, but everything he was at the facility sets him apart. Aranea’s words ring in his head: “ _Don’t ever forget where you came from, but don’t let it define you,”_ but no matter how hard Prompto tries, his past will always influence his future. 

He can try and forget everything he was, but there will always be reminders that he is _not the same_ , as evidenced by the decree from higher ranking-- not officers, but officials? He does not know what it is he should call them exactly, but his point still stands. 

Mrs. Docere gives Cor one last disbelieving look and signs the document. “I hope this makes you happy.”

“Believe me, it doesn’t.” 

“Hm,” she says, and turns around and walks to the front of the room. “Class! Say goodbye to Mr. Argentum.”

“Bye Mr. Argentum,” the room says in unison. 

Cor snorts and ruffles Prompto’s hair one last time. He leans down and whispers, “I don’t care what those documents say. I trust you.” All of a sudden, there is a pressure behind Prompto’s eyes, and he feels tears begin to well up. He blinks several times, attempting to dispel them unsuccessfully. Cor pulls him in close with one arm around his back, which Prompto quickly reciprocates. For a brief moment, it is just Cor and Prompto, but then Cor lets go and he is back in a room of strangers. 

“Bye, Prompto,” Cor says “See you after school.” He waves, and just like that he is gone. There is a weight on Prompto’s chest once Cor leaves his sight, and tears begin well up once more. It is not because Cor has left him, no, Prompto is accustomed to that. Somehow, this time it feels more final. It is a definite change; Cor is gone, and instead of being alone, Prompto is left in a room full of strangers who all have their eyes on him. Prompto brings a hand to his chest, grasping for a chocobo that is not there. His muscles tense, but Cor said-- Cor is for human children, and as far as anyone in this room is concerned, Prompto is a human child. 

“You’ll be sitting over there, Prompto, next to Rogo.” She points to a chair near the girl who asked the question previously. Prompto nods, and walks over to the chair, sniffing once and blinking to get rid of the tears that threaten to fall down. This is easy, he tells himself. He is used to following orders. 

He sits down in the specified chair, and the girl next to him puts a hand underneath her chin and asks, “So why’d you join late?”

Prompto wets his lips. “Join what late?” he questions quietly. Mrs. Docere has yet to issue a command against his talking. 

“You know. Second grade, this class. Why’re you here?” 

“Because Cor told me that’s what hu-- I should do.” 

“You don’t call him Dad?” 

“What’s a dad?” 

The girl goes silent and looks at him strangely. She raises her hand. 

“Yes, Rogo?” 

“The new kid-- what’s your name?” 

“Prompto.” 

“Prompto said he doesn’t know what a dad is.” Mrs. Docere starts, and then laughs gently. 

“It’s not good to fib, Prompto.” 

Prompto does not know what a fib is. “Okay,” he says, and the entire room laughs, each person laughing quietly, but together it makes a cacophonous noise. Prompto feels-- bad. He ducks his head down, but the urge to cry does not resurface. He has been publicly corrected before, and this is-- not a correction. It is just a reprimand. 

“Alright class, now that recess is over we’re going to work on math.” The room, excluding Prompto and a few other children, groans. “Now, now. Math is fun! Today we’re going to be working on basic addition and subtraction. I’ll be handing out a worksheet, so make sure you pass it down the row.” The-- class? Complies with her order, passing a sheet of paper down the carefully made rows of desks. Prompto, who is in the middle of a row, grabs one and passes it down after observing what the children did. 

He observes the sheet after the task is complete. ‘ _What is 75 - 23?’_ it asks. ‘ _What is 107 - 32?’_ Prompto reaches into the bag that Cor bestowed him with when they left the house saying it was necessary for school. There is a bag filled with different pencils inside; he quickly opens it, grabs a pencil, and waits for the command to begin filling out the paper. 

“Remember the lesson from yesterday about showing your work. Raise your hand if you need any help.” Prompto immediately raises a hand. 

“Yes, Prompto?” 

“How do I show my work?” The class laughs once more. 

“Now class, don’t laugh. It’s a valid question. To answer your question, you show your work by…” Prompto watches and listens intently as Mrs. Docere writes on the board, showing a rather inefficient way of calculating the value of a number, but he does not argue. He repeats the steps on the sheet after carefully reading the instructions at the top of the page. He writes his name-- Prompto Argentum. Somehow, whenever he hears anyone say the word Prompto, a feeling arises in his chest of warmth, of belonging. Prompto is him, he is Prompto. 

He finishes and puts his pencil down, scratching at the wristband Cor gave him to disguise his barcode. He is careful not to pull it down far enough to reveal the barcode in question. His long sleeves cause a feeling of itchiness in his arms after so long of wearing short sleeves, but Prompto knows he has to hide his ports. Granted, long sleeves are, at least according to Cor, typical in the current month; regardless, the extra layer serves to distance him from his peers, another reminder of what he is and what he is not. 

“Hey, you’re finished already?” Rogo asks. “Lemme copy your answers, I don’t get it.” 

“Mrs. Docere did not say that was permitted.” 

“Don’t be lame. If you don’t make a big deal about it, she’ll never know.” 

Aranea’s voice echoes in his head once more, telling him to not-- to not let himself be walked on. “I-- cannot. It is not permitted.” 

“You’re no fun,” Rogo says. 

“Quiet!” Mrs. Docere exclaims. “This is an individual assignment. Talking is not necessary.” 

The room goes silent, the only sound being the quiet scratch of lead on paper. Prompt keeps his head down, gazing at the paper. He checks the board once more, making sure that he ‘showed his work’ appropriately. It all appears to be correct, so he returns to staring mindlessly at the paper. 

It is interesting, Prompto thinks, he expected school to be more like-- training. He expected a challenge to be present, not-- this. He has never participated in something so easy, but, then again, this is the first day. There is time for more challenges to present themselves. 

After ten minutes of staring blankly at his paper, Mrs. Docere calls out, “That’s enough, class! We’ll be correcting the paper now; raise your hand if you have any questions.” She begins to read off the answers. Prompto does not bother to check his, as he knows they are correct. If his math component were damaged, then he would have a very hard time doing anything at all. 

“Prompto,” Mrs. Docere calls out, “Please follow along with me.” He nods, and looks at his paper as she continues to call out the corrections. Prompto notices through his peripheral vision that Rogo and another girl next to him have red pens out and are periodically making slashes and writing down numbers. Prompto assumes that this is what one is supposed to do if an answer is incorrect, a fact he stores away for future reference. 

Mrs. Docere finishes, and asks, “Wasn’t that fun?” Prompto looks around at the faces of the other children, many of whom are rolling their eyes, which he knows to be an act of insolence. He does not understand what action on Mrs. Docere’s behalf caused this behavior; she has been nothing but kind, even when-- adjusting Prompto’s behavior. Do the children not understand how incredibly fortunate they are to have an instructor so kind? 

The class continues this way. The children show disrespect in the face of Mrs. Docere’s enthusiasm. It is-- sad. She is a good instructor and does not deserve the insolence shown to her. She goes through ways to add and subtract, and how to show one’s work. Very few people other than Prompto pay attention. 

The class ends with a loud noise that makes Prompto jump out of his chair and fight the urge to find safety. 

Mrs. Docere laughs. “I know lunch is exciting, but you’ll have to wait for me to dismiss you first.” Prompto nods, and sits down. He chews on his bottom lip, bringing his lower jaw forward and backward as he calms down.

“Class dismissed,” she calls out, and the room descends into chaos. Children throw their bags on the ground after digging out smaller bags, and exit the room in a disorganized crowd. Prompto is left staring. He checks his own bag to see if there is any food inside-- he knows what lunch is for, after all-- and is surprised to find a sandwich inside, as well as a small mandarin orange. He follows the children outside, food items in hand. 

Once he steps outside, Prompto sees the school campus filled with children. There are some at tables, others on the grass, and a few interacting with what appears to be an obstacle course of some kind. Prompto has never seen an obstacle course like it. There is a slide, and a structure designed to be climbed upon as well as strips of plastic attached by chains to a pole. One black-haired boy in similarly dark clothes is sitting on the hanging plastic, eating what appears to be a sandwich much like Prompto’s own. 

Prompto finds an unoccupied space on the grass to sit down and eat his own food, as the tables are all occupied. He knows he should be-- interacting with other children, but it is so hard. They are all so different from each other, from Prompto; for someone used to cramped rooms filled with identical strangers, this is very disconcerting. Different hair, different skin, different faces; almost no one is the same. 

Prompto opens the clear bag holding the sandwich and finds a note contained within. ‘ _Don’t get used to me making your sandwiches. --Cor.’_ Prompto finds the note’s brevity reassuring. He tucks it away in the bag the sandwich was contained in, and puts it in the pocket of his pants so he can return it to Cor when the opportunity arises. 

He eats his sandwich and the orange without delay, throwing away the orange peel the moment he finishes his food. He returns to sit down where he was before, but notices a spot of color in the sea of green next to his foot. 

Prompto kneels down, noting a small, red, black-spotted insect crawling on the grass. He puts a hand next to it, and it crawls on within a few seconds. Prompto can barely feel it on his hand it is so light. The small bug crawls around his hand, likely looking for something to eat. It stops once it reaches the crease where his finger is bent and turns around, moving from the top of Prompto’s hand to his palm . He twists his hand to watch the tiny creature continue on its journey to find nourishment. He considers how easy it would be to crush the unprepared insect, how, once upon a time, that is what would be expected of him. 

Prompto watches as the bug flies off, revealing wings from beneath its red carapace. It lands a few feet away, returning to its spot on the grass. A part of Prompto feels-- disappointed. He wonders if the bug knew what he was thinking, and, if it did, whether it believed he would go through with it. Prompto considers the question himself: if Cor told him to do it, would he? The obvious answer is yes, but Prompto-- does not want to kill any more than he already has.  

A loud tone fills the courtyard, and the bug flies away. Prompto watches as it leaves him once and for all. He is sad to see it go. It was-- nice to have someone-- _thing_ that is not Cor let Prompto know it is okay. He knows the bug can not speak, nor does it have the mental capacity to offer reassurance, but the simple act of being near Prompto makes him feel good. 

He stands and returns to the room with the piercing gazes and judgemental laughs of children. 

* * *

Prompto learns he does not like the Lucian Literature class. There is too much to -- interpret. 

“Now I know you probably haven’t read the book yet, Prompto,” Mrs. Docere says, “but you need to follow along just like everyone else, okay?” He nods. “We will start on page 215 and end on page 220. If you need any help, simply raise your hand.” The room erupts with noise,e and she turns back to Prompto. “I’ll get you a textbook-- you’ll have to start at the beginning. Do you think you’ll be able to catch up by the end of the week?” Prompto nods once more. He is good at processing information. 

Mrs. Docere opens one of the cupboards that make up the counters of the room, eventually pulling out a large, red book. She hands it to him, and he reads the cover. _Basic Lucian Literature_ , the title says. Mrs. Docere tells him that the story they are reading starts on page 208, then instructs him to begin reading. 

He returns to the seat next to Rogo and reads carefully through the pages. As he reads, Prompto discovers one unsettling fact: there is no purpose to the book. Unlike an instruction manual or photo collection, it provides no overall service. Instead, it tells the fictional-- Prompto knows this because he read the introductory paragraph stating that this work is part of the ‘Fiction’ unit-- story of a girl who moves into a new house and is dissatisfied with the place she is living. Prompto finds the girl-- not likable; he wonders why she can not see all that has been done for her. Moving is a small sacrifice and may lead to more beneficial opportunities in the future. 

As Prompto contemplates the girl’s selfishness and ungratefulness, Mrs. Docere calls out, “Reading time is over class!” He notes that she appears to talk more at the room than with the people contained within. 

“Did you all finish your assignment?” There are more heads being shaken than nods, a fact which Prompto takes to mean that the room focused more on talking than the directive assigned.

Interesting.

“Now that you _all_ ,” she stresses, “have finished the story, begin answering the review questions on page 221. Make sure you answer every question-- if you don’t know the answer, just try your best.” One of the students in the back raises his hand and Mrs. Docere sighs faintly. “Yes, you may work with your table partner.”

“So, since you haven’t read the whole thing I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Rogo says. “There’s a girl named--”

“I am aware,” Prompto says. “I read the entire story.”

“Oh,” Rogo says. “Well, then you can help answer the questions. ‘What is a main theme in _Sunflowers of the City_?’”

“I do not understand what you are asking.” 

“A theme. It’s like-- the whole of a story and characters in a word or something. I dunno.” 

“I do not understand,” Prompto reiterates. 

“Fine,” Rogo says, “I’ll do the first question. You’re not a very good talker, you know that?” 

Prompto fights the urge to bite his lip. “I am aware.”

“Good, now the theme of this story is obviously like, loneliness and stuff, right? ‘Cause Domum-- that’s the main character-- moves away from her old home and has to like, make new friends and stuff.”

“Okay.” 

It goes on like that, Prompto attempting to understand what is being told to him and Rogo explaining impatiently. Or, not explaining, but telling him the answers, which he writes down on a sheet of lined paper. Lucian is something he needs to improve in. Maybe when he returns to the house he will ask Cor about it. 

After ten minutes of talking, Mrs. Docere rings a bell and the room goes silent.  She asks children to raise their hands and give their version of the answers to the questions posed. Prompto notes that none of theirs quite match what he wrote down, and realizes that there is no way for them to match perfectly. The questions are too broad, too vague-- nothing that would allow for specifics. 

Mrs. Docere calls the end of Lucian and gives the children “ten minutes to read before school is over.” Prompto has no book, so he does not read. Instead, he sits ramrod straight in the chair, waiting for the time to pass. 

The shockingly loud noise reverberates throughout the room, and Prompto has to fight the urge to clap his hands to his ears to stop his head from vibrating. He is only able to resist the urge thanks to years of ignoring discomfort in favor of the greater mission. His mission is to blend in, to pretend to be human, and none of the children seem bothered by the noise, so he must show no sign of his distress.

The sound stops, and the children rise, grabbing their bags and exiting the room. Prompto does the same, though checks his phone for any messages from Cor before he leaves. 

_‘Cor: Pick you up in the front by the office we went through’_

_‘Cor: Going to be a little late’_

_‘Cor: Its work after all’_

_‘Cor: You ok with that?’_

The messages were sent sporadically throughout the day, about every forty minutes or so. Prompto sends back a clumsy _‘yeah,’_ his fingers unused to the phone’s keyboard. He will have to improve his coordination in the future. 

“Goodbye, Prompto,” Mrs. Docere calls out. 

“Goodbye,” he says, and exits the room. 

* * *

 

Prompto waits an hour and seven minutes for Cor to show up in a black car. Prompto jogs forward, the opens the door and sits down. His backpack is still attached to him, but he makes no move to remove it; however, as a result, he is slightly hunched forward in the car. Cor sits in the driver’s seat, an unusual occurrence in and of itself. Cor is more likely to be driven to to drive. 

“Why are you driving?” Prompto asks after he pulls the door shut. 

Cor laughs once. “Because I wanted to pick you up, not some government official.” 

“Oh.” 

“Sorry it took so long, the Kingsglaive recruits were being uncooperative,” Cor explains, “When I say scrub, they should scrub.” 

“Were they questioning orders?” Prompto questions as Cor pulls away from the school and onto the road. 

“Yeah, sent a few packing. They just weren’t cut out for the task.”  
“Hm. Am I cut out for the task?” 

“What?” 

“Am I cut out for the task?” He does not know what the saying means, but knows that to not be ‘cut out for the task’ is detrimental. 

“I wouldn’t say you’re not-- but you’re just a kid, you don’t need to worry about stuff like that. Speaking of, how was your first day of school? I know you missed half of the day because it took forever to get that paperwork approved, but was the rest of it okay?”

“It was-- fine.”

“You can tell me what you really think,” Cor assures.

Prompto swallows and wets his lips. “It was-- the math was easy. I am not used to it being so-- basic. I do not understand the necessity of the Lucian course,” Prompto pauses, considering his phrasing, and quickly adds, “Not that it isn’t necessary! I am sure Lucian is very necessary for humans, but-- I just can not find it. The use of it, that is.” 

Cor laughs. “Yeah, Lucian wasn’t my favorite class either. It’s a pain that there’s no right answer, but there’s a _right_ answer, huh?” 

“I do not understand.” 

A puff of air escapes through Cor’s nose. “That’s alright,” he says, and that is all. The rest of the drive back to the house is silent save for the quiet sounds of breathing. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the english va for spike spiegel plays verstael besithia, so does that mean that he also voices an older prompto?


	10. stray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things begin to fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so like. this has been a long time coming. I'm so sorry for the wait, life has just been. life. updates might slow down a bit because, until this point, i've been writing 300 words a day, every day, regardless of anything. unfortunately, that's taken a bit of a toll on me so i'm not going to be as strict with myself. thank you for understanding!
> 
> speaking of thank yous, thank you all so much for more than 500 kudos! that's amazing. i never would have thought this story of mine would make it this far. truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. i read every comment and each one puts a smile on my face. 
> 
> also!!! this marks the final chapter wherein cor is a major focus. next chapter's a major timeskip, so. i'm not entirely happy with it, but this was planned to be a collection of one shots so what can you do. 
> 
> thank you all again.
> 
> also thank you [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori/pseuds/phori) you're the best

School continues much the same as his first day. Prompto finds himself sitting in the field during lunch and recess-- both of which are breaks that occur periodically throughout the school day. Later in the year he takes to taking pictures with a digital camera Cor bought him after Prompto expressed his desire to take pictures while at school. Prompto read the rulebook he received the day after he was entered in school, and it said nothing against cameras, as long as they are not pointed at another person without their consent. He finds it interesting that of the ‘List of Unacceptable Student Behavior,’ possession or wearing of hats is the first item. He knows it is not his place to judge the administration’s decision, but--

Well, it is hard not to care. Prompto learned that after-- leaving the facility. It is hard not to care about the ladybugs that land next to him, or the clouds and buildings he captures pictures of.

It is exceedingly hard not to care about the children who go to school with him. There is one child Prompto sees, one who he actually thinks he might be able to be-- acquaintances with, that he cares about a lot, despite never actually having talked to him. The boy is in the same grade as him, and has black hair that Prompto has learned is typical of Lucians and wears equally dark clothes, something that he only knows Cor to do. He is not always there, sometimes leaving for days at a time. Prompto wonders how frail in health one must be for them to miss so much school. 

Soon enough, months have passed and Prompto is no closer to interacting with the boy in black, or any of the other children in the class. Mrs. Docere is kind, and Rogo explains everything, but neither could be considered friends. He sees what friendship is every day on the field, watching children run to and fro with others like themselves. Prompto wishes there was someone like him, but at the same time does not. He would not like any of the children at the school to enter a training facility. They would not smile as much there as they do in the classroom. 

Cor picks him up occasionally, but it is usually someone else who picks him up. Mostly men in women in black clothes, much like the boy in school. Prompto recognizes some of the people who pick him up from when he used to run laps with Cor’s trainees-- either the Crownsguard or Kingsglaive.

“Have a good day?” a man who Prompto has never learned the name of asks, despite the man having picked him up more times than not. 

“Yeah,” Prompto says. “Math was good.” 

“Good to hear,” the man says, and that is all. Much like most of the drives Prompto takes, the rest of the ride home is silent. When they reach the house, Prompto thanks the man for driving him and unlocks the front door.

The house is dark despite the sun streaming in through the windows, so Prompto turns on the kitchen light. He looks to see if Cor left him a note, and spots one on the fridge, held up by a bright yellow chocobo magnet. 

‘ _home at 7,’_ it says. Prompto sighs, running to his bedroom and grabbing Bobo from his place on the immaculately folded bed. The chocobo hangs limp in his arms until he sets him down on the table. 

“What do you think, Bobo?” Prompto asks. “Cor’s working again today, but you already know that.” Prompto’s voice echoes throughout the house. He is speaking as loud as he can without yelling. “I think-- I think I should do my homework, and then call Aranea. Do you think she would be happy if I called her?” 

Bobo looks at him with big, black eyes. 

“Yeah, I will call her when I am finished.” Prompto opens the backpack and pulls out the homework for the night. A math worksheet, which he finishes quickly, a vocabulary worksheet, which is also finished promptly, and a reading assignment. The reading assignment takes longer, but when he finishes Prompto thinks he has the correct answers. He has learned that when dealing with Lucian, it is never about what the words say. Despite this, he still rarely gets the correct answer. He told Cor about this, but Cor was not displeased with his deficiencies. 

“We’ve all got our strengths and weaknesses, kid. You’re just not good at Lucian; that’s fine. Just try your hardest,” he told him when Prompto voiced his dissatisfaction with his performance. 

Prompto does try his hardest on his Lucian homework, Bobo watching all the while, and puts it away after forty minutes of work. He pulls out his math homework and finishes the worksheet in five minutes. 

He puts every back in the backpack, and moves it by the front door for the following day. He then makes himself a sandwich and puts it in a plastic bag, which he then stores in the refrigerator. Prompto knows that lunch at school costs Cor money-- not that making sandwiches does not, but he does know that bringing lunch from home reduces the cost dramatically. 

With his preparations for tomorrow finished, Prompto glances at the clock on his phone. 4:02 P.M., it reads. It is only 7:02 in Niflheim, so Aranea should be awake. He presses her name in his contact list and listens as the phone rings. 

“ _Hey Prompto,_ ” Aranea says as she answers. 

“Hey Aranea,” Prompto responds. She taught him that ‘hey’ is a better way to say ‘hello.’

“ _What’s up?”_

“Cor is at work, so I thought-- it might be okay if I called you. Is it? I do not want to disturb you--”

“ _Relax, Prom, you’re fine. I like talking to you._ ” ‘Prom’ is a shortening of ‘Prompto’-- a nickname, Aranea tells him. Friends give each other nicknames. 

“Oh, I am happy to hear that. Sometimes the house is very quiet, and Bobo does not make any noise.”

Aranea is silent. “ _Cor’s working late again, huh?_ ”

“Yeah.”

“ _You must get lonely without him_ .” Prompto does not answer. His silence says enough to Aranea, who says, “ _It isn’t great that he leaves you alone for so long, you know, right?”_

A hot spike of anger blooms in Prompto’s chest and he finds himself shouting, “There’s nothing wrong with what Cor does!” 

“ _Woah, chillax Prompto. I know you love Cor, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t without flaw. It’s fine to admit to him that you wish he wasn’t at work so much, you know?”_

“I don’t--”

“ _You don’t have to know or understand, Prom. Sometimes things aren’t logical. It’s all about how you feel-- you your feelings matter just as much as facts, right Prompto? They may not be as logical or have a reason to ‘em, but they matter to you, and you matter.”_

Prompto is silent for half of a minute before he hesitantly murmurs, “I do not understand.”

Aranea sighs. “ _That’s fine, it’s fine. I’m not your therapist, but fuck kid, you gotta value yourself-- including your emotions. If it hurts you-- and I don’t mean like you’re bleeding or anything-- but if it hurts you, you gotta let the person who’s hurting you know.”_ Prompto thinks of the big, empty classroom filled with vibrant classmates, all of whom Prompto can say without a doubt are nothing more than acquaintances at most. Prompto thinks of the big, empty house filled with nothing but a mixture of artificial and natural lighting, and, of course, Bobo and himself. “ _Look Prompto, just try to-- to value yourself, alright? I gotta go, but you-- work on that.”_

“Yes, Aranea,” Prompto says, but she already hung up. The house is silent once more, save for the quiet hum of the refrigerator. He glances at the clock. ‘4:47,’ it reads. He still has approximately two hours before Cor returns, so Prompto removes Bobo from the table and places him on the couch, then sits down and curls his body around the chocobo. The television remains off; he wants-- he does not _need_ to watch television. Electricity costs money, and food costs money, and making money costs money, and Prompto knows he can not afford to be more of a  drain on Cor than he already his. 

So, having turned all the lights off, Prompto falls asleep. 

* * *

“Why’re you asleep on the couch?” Prompto hears Cor’s voice saying. “You fall asleep watching TV?”

“No,” Prompto proudly declares, “I came home, ate, finished my homework, then talked to,” he falters, remembering Aranea’s words, “Aranea, and then I fell asleep on the couch.”

Cor puts a hand on his temple, “And what about all the lights being off?” 

“I heard you saying yesterday that the electricity bill has gone up, so I thought--”

“You don’t have to, Prompto. I get paid just fine, you don’t have to worry about the bills. Leave that job to the grown-ups.”

Prompto wants to say a lot of things, but he says nothing; instead, he nods. Cor is a human adult, Prompto is Prompto. Aranea is wrong, Cor is-- Cor is home enough. Cor is home more than enough-- him being around at all is a gift that Prompto refuses to take for granted. 

Cor smiles and ruffles Prompto’s hair, which had grown considerably longer from when Cor first found him. He had asked Prompto if he wanted to get his hair cut, but Prompto declined. It is nice, he thought at the time, to have some control over something. 

“I brought dinner home,” Cor says and moves so he is not blocking Prompto’s line of sight. There is a large brown bag at the table, and Prompto can smell the grease from the couch. 

“Thank you, Cor,” he says, the nutritional value of the meal held firmly in his mind. He will need to go running tomorrow after school for at least forty minutes to rid himself of the excess calories. 

He bites into the burger-- a single cheeseburger, no tomatoes. Prompto learned, upon first trying a burger, that he does not enjoy tomatoes. He could eat them if necessary of course, and expressed this thought to Cor a multitude of times, but Cor said that, “If something makes you unhappy, and it’s easy to avoid, then just avoid it. You don’t have to put up with something if you don’t want to.” 

The burger tastes good and Prompto finishes it quickly, then moves onto the small fries, which is consumed in an equally short period of time. Cor is still eating when Prompto finishes. Cor finishes a few short minutes later, and rises from the table. He throws out the paper his burger was wrapped in and the container for the fries, an action that Prompto quickly replicates. 

“Good food,” Cor says.

“Yeah.”

“You wanna watch some TV together?”

Prompto smiles and nods. He is always happy to watch television with Cor. They both move to the couch, Prompto grabbing Bobo along the way. He sits down and lies against Cor’s arm. Cor turns the television on, but then mutes it. 

“So I was thinking…” Cor says. Prompto turns to look at him and nods. “I was thinking that-- well, I know I’m not home during the day very much, and I know how much that sucks for you.” 

“It is not that bad,” Prompto says, thinking of how empty the house seems when Cor is not in it. 

“Well, it really is. I’ve cut down on hours as much as I can, and I have Sundays off now. But-- I was wondering if you would rather come to work with me after school so you don’t have to sit in an empty house all day? You’d be hanging out in my office, and I know that might not be super fun, but we’d get to spend more time together and you could do your homework or whatever inside the Citadel.”

“Yes!” Prompto exclaims. “I would-- it would make me very happy to stay with you.” 

Cor’s face contorts. “I’ve really been doing you wrong, huh.” Though ‘huh’ normally denotes a question, Cor’s voice is flat and unchanging. 

“I don’t think so,” Prompto says quietly. “I think-- that you have done everything you should have done.” Cor ruffles Prompto’s hair. 

“There’re-- a few kids inside the Citadel, too. I talked to Re-- the King about it, and you might run into them.” 

“I understand,” Prompto says, and as is not common for him, he truly does. He will-- be able to spend more time with Cor, and perhaps the children at the Citadel will be-- more like him. Prompto smiles. “This makes me-- very happy.”

Cor tilts one corner of his mouth up in a smile, but he does not look happy. There is something in his eyes that Prompto finds disingenuous. It is his eyes, Prompto decides. They are too sad for him to truly be happy. 

“What are the children in the Citadel like?” Prompto asks. He does not want for Cor to look so sad anymore. 

“Oh, well, there’s Gladiolus. He’s a year or two older than you and is kind of a hardass, but don’t tell Clarus I said that.”

“I won’t.” 

“I know. He takes after his father more than anything really, and seems to enjoy sparring a lot. He’s training to be the Prince’s Shield, so he’s a little more serious than most kids his age. He has a bit of a temper, but overall a good kid.” 

“Are there any other people?” If Gladiolus is as Cor says, then Prompto doesn’t know if-- Prompto does not want to disappoint anyone, and if Gladiolus has the temperament of a Commander then Prompto-- it is-- _was_ very easy to disappoint and anger Commanders.

“Well, there’s Ignis. You might not see him too much because he mostly hangs around Prince Noctis, and he’s-- you might not see too much of him. He’s more serious than Gladiolus, though, and way more responsible. He’s in training to be Noctis’s advisor.”

“What does an advisor do?” 

“Uh, well, he advises mostly, gives suggestions as to what Noctis should do and controls his calorie intake and paperwork and all the stuff most people can’t handle without a law degree. His uncle’s the current advisor to the King.”

“Oh. Who’s Noctis?” 

“Noctis is the prince. He’s-- he’s the heir to the throne, which means when Regis-- the King-- dies, then he’ll take his place. He’s going to make most of the important decisions and laws, though they have to go through the Council first. Of course, the King can override the Council’s decision, but… you have no idea what I’m talking about.” 

Prompto shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. It took me a while to learn too.”

“Why, um, did you have to learn? Weren’t you-- um,” Prompto stutters.

“Born here? Yeah, but I don’t have the most extravagant of backgrounds, you know? I was orphaned when I was pretty young and grew up in the system. Not the ideal way to learn to parent, but-- that’s not important. I’m an outsider to-- everything, or I was, at least. Now I’m in too deep.”

“Do you want out?”  
Cor takes a moment and seriously considers Prompto’s question. “Prompto… I’ve seen a lot of people-- of Kings in my time as Marshal. I watched Regis’s dad die, and-- well. I suppose the answer is no, I don’t. I believe in what I’m doing, and even though the hours are hell, it gives me purpose. I really needed purpose back then.”

“I-- do not understand.” 

“Hm,” Cor says, spreading out on the couch, his arms resting on the couch’s back. “You-- when I first found you, your purpose was to obey orders, right?”

“Yes,” Prompto says. The word tastes bitter in his mouth. He does not like to remember what he used to be. 

“Well, I was kinda like that when I was younger, except-- I didn’t have anyone who told me what to do. Not saying that what you-- went through was better in any aspect, but you had direction. A bad direction, but a direction nonetheless. Anyways, I was aimless. I hated everything around me, thought the government was corrupt and a whole buncha other things that made me-- apathetic.”

“Apathetic,” Prompto parrots. The thought of Cor lacking the capacity to care seems-- distant. Too far away from who Cor is that Prompto cannot reconcile what he knows with what he sees. 

“Yeah, apathetic. Regis’s dad hired me and-- well. That’s how I got started in the government, started changing things.”

“How did that change things?” 

“I was an outsider to the Citadel, like I said, so I offered a new perspective. They-- because of my experience in the system, there were major reforms. Kids won’t grow up the way I did-- at least that’s the hope.”

“Oh,” Prompto says. He does not know what ‘the system’ is, but it does not sound like a good thing. He is glad he is with Cor and not elsewhere. He is even happier that he will now get to spend more time with Cor. 

“That’s enough about me though,” Cor concludes. He thinks for a minute, then says, “You never asked what Noctis was like.” 

“I-- thought that might be classified. Because he is important.” Something crawls in his gut. Prompto did not think that; he simply forgot to ask. It is-- bad of him to not tell the truth, but admitting to Cor-- it does not hurt him, does it? 

Cor hums thoughtfully, ignorant to Prompto’s distress. “Well, yeah, most people don’t get to know too much about the Prince other than what bull-- nonsense tabloids publish, but you’re-- not most people.”

“I’m not?” Prompto asks. There is a feeling overtaking his guilt, one of disappointment and-- hurt? He knows he is not similar to most of those who live in Insomnia, knows he is much closer to Magitek soldiers, but to hear it from Cor is-- painful. 

“Yeah, well, you’re my-- ward, and I have access to information that most people don’t, and you’ve been-- well, I guess you haven’t been screened, but I know you won’t share classified information.”

“How do you know that?” 

“Because I know you, and you’re-- a good kid. I trust you.” 

“Oh,” Prompto says. No matter how many times he hears it from Cor, it will always make Prompto happy. His guilt, something that never disappeared, has heightened. Cor-- trusts him, and Prompto lied to him, and Cor _trusts him_. 

“I lied,” Prompto whispers, the two simple words feeling like barbed wire in his throat.  

“What?” 

“I lied,” he near whispers. “I-- forgot to ask about Noctis. I did not think that he is classified information.” There is a pressure behind his eyes, so Prompto averts his face so Cor can not see him. It is-- he does not want to see disappointment in Cor’s eyes. 

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Cor says, his voice tinted with uncertainty. “It’s-- it’s okay, Prompto. Lying’s not good-- but it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Yes, but I lied to you. And you trust me. And you should not trust me, because I lied, and--” 

“You’re fine, Prompto.” Prompto hides his head in his hands. 

“You trust me,” he says once more. “I-- you should not trust me. I am-- not hu--”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Cor threatens. Prompto silences and puts his arms around his body in an approximation of a hug. “You might’ve been pumped full of daemon blood and told over and over that you’re nothing more than an object, but you’re as human as they come. The fact that you care enough to tell the truth shows that” 

“It shows that I am weak because I did not initially tell the truth,” he says monotonously. “A good human would tell the truth, even if-- if it hurt them, because then they would not be…”

“What, a liar? Kid, it’s okay. Everyone’s lied at least once in their life. I’ve lied before, so has Regis. It’s okay. You don’t have to be perfect.” 

“But I have to pass as human.”

“And to be human is to err; kid, part of being human is being flawed. If you were perfect, then you wouldn’t be human. And honestly? A little white lie is hardly anything. There are way worse things you could do.”

“But I don’t want to anything worse.” 

“And you shouldn’t-- look, there are lines that you shouldn’t cross. A white lie? Does not cross any of those lines. You shouldn’t lie, but sometimes you gotta.”

“I don’t understand. If lying is bad--”

“And it is,” Cor interrupts.

“Since lying is bad, then why do you have to do it? A wrong is a wrong and failures warrant correction no matter the situation.” 

“Yeah, okay, nothing you do is going to warrant ‘correction,’ definitely not the way you know it at least. And the world isn’t black and white. A lie is bad, yes, but sometimes you have to lie to spare someone’s feelings. Here, I got it,” Cor says, “if you do something to purposely hurt someone else, it’s bad and wrong, but if you, for example, lie to make someone else feel better, then it’s not bad. It’s not necessarily good, but it doesn’t cross the same line as telling someone something to purposely cause them pain.”

“I-- okay, yes Cor.” Prompto still does not understand, and possibly never will, but Cor has told him what to do. Do not lie, and do not do it to hurt a person. That is-- Prompto can do that. 

“So, about the Citadel, do you want to go tomorrow? I can probably get off a little early to pick you up and introduce you to everyone. You’ll-- Clarus will want you to go through a screening first, but it won’t be too bad.”

“It would make me very happy to go with you tomorrow.”

“Alright, good.” Cor nods and sits up, stretching his arms until quiet ‘crack’s sound. “You, uh, want to actually watch TV now? I found a show you might like.” 

“Yeah.”

“It’s called _The Great Tenebraean Cooking Show_ and…” Cor’s voice trails off as he glances down at Prompto, who yawns unwittingly. “You sure you don’t want to just sleep?” 

“No, I am fine.”

Cor makes a noise to indicate that he heard, and turns on the show he was previously speaking of. Prompto lies down on his side and tucks his legs in so that he is not intruding on Cor’s side of the couch. The show starts up, music playing and people rushing about. Prompto’s eyes begin to drift shut, and just before unconsciousness claims him, he feels a soft weight on top of him. 

“Night, kid,” is the last thing he hears. 

 

* * *

 

Prompto wakes up in his bed with Bobo in his arms to the gentle chimes of the alarm. Prompto silences it, and begins moving, first stretching his arms, then his legs. He dresses himself quickly, then enters the bathroom and brushes his teeth. Once he finishes, he walks to the kitchen where Cor is sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading something on his phone. 

“Hey kid,” he greets as Prompto enters the room. 

“Hello.” Prompto grabs a box of Chocob-Os from the cupboard and pours the sugary circles into a bowl, then adds milk. He places the bright yellow box back in the cupboard and brings his bowl and sits across from Cor. He eats the cereal slowly; he must be prepared to leave by six-thirty and it is only six. Cor leaves before Prompto wakes up every day of the week except Friday, which is the only day he is available to drive Prompto to, but not from, school. 

“I know we talked about this last night, but you definitely want to come with me to the Citadel after school?”

Prompto chews as fast as he can and swallows before answering, “Yes!” 

Cor nods and says nothing else, resuming whatever it was he was doing on his phone. Prompto replicates the action as he eats, navigating to Wiz’s Chocobo Post’s Kwehter. The account has hundreds of pictures of brightly colored chocobos doing anything from racing to sleeping. Prompto had asked Cor a while back whether it would be okay for him to have a Kwehter account of his own. Cor had shrugged, and said, “Do what you want, kid, just be careful.” Prompto made sure to be very careful. He only ever used the account to post the pictures he would take in his free time and to like the pictures of chocobos and other animals. 

The baby chocobos remind Prompto most strongly of Bobo with their round, golden bodies and soft black eyes. They are his favorite-- not to say that the other chocobos are bad! The other chocobos are just as good, they just look-- different. Prompto double checks the time-- he has seventeen minutes-- and finishes his bowl of cereal. He then stands and places the bowl in the dishwasher after rinsing it out, as well as the spoon. 

Prompto sits down once more and pulls up the phone to resume his chocobo quest. He scrolls through the application until Cor stands, at which time he rises. 

“Time to go,” Cor says needlessly, and Prompto nods. He grabs the backpack Cor got for him and puts the straps over his shoulders as he follows Cor to the car. The drive to school is silent; Prompto knows that he should be talking, but can not find the words. He knows that Cor likes it when he talks, but the ride is over before he can think of anything to say. 

“Goodbye, Cor,” he decides on. Cor lifts a hand off of the steering wheel as Prompto exits the car, giving a small wave. 

“See you after school.”

“Yeah.” Cor nods and replaces his hand on the steering wheel and nods. Prompto closes the car door, careful not to apply too much force in swinging it closed. It closes with a loud sound, and Cor drives away. 

Prompto puts his hands on the backpack’s straps. Today is going to be a long day. 

 

* * *

 

School, as Prompto predicted, did seem to take longer than usual. Prompto fought the urge to bounce his leg all day; the only way he resisted was through sheer strength of will and years of conditioning. Even recess and lunch felt prolonged. He knew that the length of the school day had not changed, he had. 

Regardless of how long the school day had felt, it was now over and Prompto can go to the Citadel to meet Cor. He walks to the front of the school and opens the door to the backseat of a dark black car he has become accustomed to. The back windows are tinted so that no one can see who is inside. 

“Hey, kid,” the driver greets. 

“Hello,” Prompto returns after a brief pause. The driver has not greeted him until today. “You are taking me to the Citadel, correct?”

“Yup,” the driver says, popping the ‘p.’ “Marshal’s orders.” Prompto nods, then realizes the driver can not see him.

“Yes.” He grabs the seatbelt-- it is not a restraint as he initially believed it to be, but rather, a way to keep the occupants of the car safe in case of a collision. It makes him feel more-- comfortable to know that it is not a precautionary measure in case Prompto needs to be neutralized. 

The car pulls out of the school’s driveway and onto a less busy street. They continue in silence, the driver weaving through traffic and eventually pulling into a large garage full of cars identical to the one that Prompto is being driven in. Prompto exits the vehicle as the driver does, grabbing his backpack and slinging it around his shoulders once more. 

“I was told to lead you to the Marshal’s office,” the driver explains as they walk around to where Prompto is standing. 

“We’ve known each other for quite some time now, but I haven’t introduced myself. My name’s Coegi, what’s yours?”

Prompto wets his lips and grabs the bottom of his shirt in his fists. “My name is Prompto Argentum.”

“Prompto,” they consider. “It fits you. Now, it’s been killing me, are you the Marshal’s kid or something?”

“He calls me kid. I do not know if I am his, though.” 

“I-- okay then.” They step into an elevator and Coegi presses button number seventy-six once Prompto is inside. The doors slide shut smoothly and the floor jerks a bit beneath Prompto’s feet. Out of habit, he bends his knees to keep himself from stumbling forwards. The elevator comes to a stop a short time later, and Prompto waits for Coegi to exit. They do, and Prompto follows. 

Coegi leads him to a room with two ornate wooden doors. They open the door and hold it open for Prompto, who thanks them quietly. 

Prompto enters the large room. The floor is marble with a round, black carpet on top. Cor sits at a large desk, dark wood contrasting with the white of the walls. There are two windows, one to each side of Cor, both of which have black curtains pulled back in front of them. Prompto notes that the weather looks nice, and somewhat regrets not enjoying it more when he was outside for recess and lunch. 

“Marshal,” Coegi says. 

Cor looks up from the paper he is writing on on his desk and nods. “Thank you,” he says to Coegi. “You are dismissed.” They nod, and exit the room, though not before offering a final wave to Prompto. He waves back, and they smile. 

Cor pulls his shoulders back and stretches his arms. “Good to see you, Prompto.” 

“Yeah,” Prompto agrees. “This room is-- big.” Cor pulls one corner of his mouth up in a half-hearted smile. 

“Sure is. How was school?”

“Good. I saw a really big bird at lunch! It was white and had really long legs and a long neck. I took a picture. Do you, um, want to see?” 

“Sure thing, kid. You always take good pictures.” Warmth blooms in Prompto’s chest, and he smiles involuntarily. He rushes over to Cor’s side, pulling out the phone as he walks. By the time he is at Cor’s side, the photo is already pulled up. 

Cor nods. “That is a really cool looking bird, and that’s a really good picture. I really like the, uh, composition of it and the way the colors-- sorry kid, I can’t-- I don’t know how to say it’s a good picture other than saying it’s a good picture.”

Prompto smiles once more. “As long as you like it Cor, I am happy.” 

“Hn,” Cor grunts, averting eye contact from Prompto. “Shoot kid, I’ve got an image to uphold here, y’know? If you keep doing shi-- stuff like this, none of the recruits will ever take me seriously again.” 

“Oh,” Prompto says, his chest tightening. “I am sorry. It will not happen again.” 

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Cor sighs, “Ah, whatever, you keep doing you, Prompto. I like seeing your pictures.” 

“I-- okay,” he agrees. He does not know what would make Cor happier-- seeing the pictures, or not seeing them. Cor says he likes them, but also says it is bad for him to see them. It is very confusing for Prompto. He thinks to himself that it is safer to not show them, so he puts the phone away in the pocket of his pants. 

“Anyways, how was school today?”

“It was good, but long. I did not know school could feel that long.” 

“That’s how most kids feel at school every day.”

“Oh.” 

“What do you think of the Citadel? I know you’ve been here before, but it’s under nicer circumstances this time.” 

“It is-- big,” Prompto says. That is his one impression of the Citadel that he thinks will not change no matter how many times he comes. “It is also empty. Where did all the people go?” 

“All of the trainees are out on break for the day, and most of the more essential personnel are on the higher floors, helping the King with the latest council meeting.”

“Oh.” 

“Speaking of,” Cor says reluctantly, “I have to take you to see Clarus. It’s-- a check-up, of sorts. He wants to make sure that it’s safe for you to be around the King and Prince, especially because you might be seeing Ignis and Gladio around a lot. Are you-- alright with that? I know it’s not ideal, but I’m sure it’ll go well and we’ll get to spend some more time together.”

“I am fine with it,” Prompto says. “When do I need to meet with him?” 

“He said as soon as possible, so we should probably head over now.” 

“Okay.” Cor rises from his chair after putting the paper he was writing on on the top of a large stack of papers. He pushes his chair back in, then walks past Prompto. He pauses at the door and tilts his head, a gesture meaning Prompto should follow. He walks over to where Cor is standing, and Cor then opens the one of the two doors and holds it open for Prompto. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. 

Cor nods and walks ahead of Prompto, who follows silently. They walk through the off-white halls, stopping at the elevator. They enter, and Cor presses a button. The elevator begins to move up. It stops, and they exit, Cor resuming his position in the front. He leads Prompto to a room with similar doors to his own office at the end of the hallway. He knocks once, rapping his knuckles on polished wood, then opens a door. 

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” Clarus says. Cor enters the room, Prompto trailing behind him. Prompto’s shoulders are hunched over, and he is fighting the urge to grab the shirt he is wearing in his hands. He remembers having Bobo the last time he met Clarus. He wishes he had Bobo now. 

“Yeah, well,” Cor trails off, “it is what it is. What do you want him to do?” 

“Prompto-- that’s his name, right?” Cor nods. “Prompto, come over here.” Prompto glances up at Cor, who nods. He walks over to the front of Clarus’s desk, head bowed slightly. “Now, there’s nothing to worry about, this isn’t like last time. It’s been long enough-- you’ve proven yourself to be safe around Cor. What I want to know is if you promise to not let any harm befall the Prince, whether it be from you or some external source.”

“Wait,” Cor says, “Prompto isn’t your son, Clarus. He wasn’t raised to be the Shield, or the Prince’s advisor. He was--”

“He was brought up to be a weapon,” Clarus says firmly. Prompto flinches, hands moving to clench the hem of the shirt. “I simply wish to point him towards our enemies, and not Lucis.”

“That’s over the line, Clarus,” Cor says quietly. “His past-- yes, he was brought up to fight, but that’s the whole point of bringing him to Insomnia. So he doesn’t have to.” 

“We all have a part to play, Cor.”

“Not--” 

“Please stop,” Prompto whispers as the two men continue fighting. His heart feels like someone is squeezing it, and his stomach churns. Sweat is building up-- was it always so hot in the room? His face feels warm. The rest of his body feels like he is about to go into a training session that would determine whether he gets decommissioned or not. Is that what they are arguing about? Prompto suddenly can not remember what it is they are fighting about, other than the fact that they are fighting over him. His breaths come in short bursts as the arguing gets louder and louder. The shirt is suddenly not enough. He wants Bobo, he wants Cor--

“Oh fuck,” Cor says, a stark contrast to the shouting he was previously doing. “Shit, Clarus.” Clarus has quieted too, but Prompto is still breathing sporadically. Hot tears roll down his face, and-- it is all his fault, he is to blame, he should not have gone to the Citadel, it was a mistake, Cor made a mistake bringing here, not just to the Citadel but out of the training facility, he was never meant to leave, he was meant to be decommissioned and--

“Breathe in,” he hears Cor say from somewhere far away. “Breathe with me. In,” Prompto complies, instructions coming easily, “and out. In,” and the process repeats a few more times. It goes on until Prompto can breathe properly without fear of hyperventilating. Tears still gather at the corners of his eyes. He is so-- ashamed. 

“I-- apologies,” he says quietly, disliking how his voice sticks in the back of his throat. Talking makes him feel like he is about to start crying again. He looks at the floor and wraps his arms around his chest. 

Clarus sighs. “No, I was out of line. I treated him-- you like an adult, and that was my mistake.” Prompto can not see Cor’s face, but he knows that the man is giving Clarus an unhappy look. It is just the way Cor is. 

“I’m going to be taking the rest of today off,” Cor says, controlled, quiet, and furious. Prompto himself is not too acquainted with what it is like to feel anger, but he knows-- knows what it sounds like. 

Prompto feels a hand on his shoulder and he is being corralled out of the room. 

“It’s okay,” Cor says quietly. Prompto nods, releasing his arms from his body and glancing up. The contacts in his eyes feel strange. He has never cried with them in before. He rubs his eyes to rid himself of the remaining tears and to relieve himself of the itch in his eyes. 

“I am sorry,” he murmurs to Cor. “This was meant to be-- we were meant to have more time together.”

“It’s not your fault.” 

Prompto makes a small sound, but finds he can not fully agree with Cor. If he had only done as Clarus asked, if he was not so weak, if, if, if. 

They return to Cor’s office. “I just need to pick up some paperwork,” Cor explains. Prompto nods. Cor does not need to explain himself to him. Cor picks up a folder on his desk and tucks it under his arm. He then leads Prompto out of the room, down the elevator, and into a black car. 

“Maybe…” he begins, “maybe the Citadel isn’t the best place for you.”

Prompto thinks of Clarus’s stony expression, his expectations for what Prompto should be, what he is, and what he should do. 

“I-- I do not want to be a weapon,” Prompto murmurs firmly. “I want-- I want to be Prompto.” Cor is silent, his knuckles white as he grips onto the steering wheel. Prompto adds hurriedly, “But I also want to be with you.” 

Cor sighs loudly. “I know, Prompto. I haven’t been around as much as I’d’ve liked, but I can’t-- I have a duty, to the crown, and to the people of Lucis. I can’t-- Prompto, I’d really like it if I could be home more too, but I don’t know how possible that is.”

Prompto’s heart feels like someone has it held in their hands and is squeezing, every second leading to more and more discomfort. “I understand,” he says. It is not like he is not used to it. He can-- he will survive. 

“I’m sorry, Prompto,” Cor says.

“There is nothing to apologize for,” he wants to say, but the words get caught in his throat. In the end, all he can manage is a quiet “Yes.” It is fine. Cor does not owe anything to Prompto, not the way Prompto owes everything to him. This thought allows Prompto to say, “I will be fine.” 

Prompto looks at Cor’s face through the rearview mirror. His eyebrows are pushed down and his mouth is a thin line.

“Prompto do you--” Cor’s voice sounds as choked as Prompto’s own, “do you want to be with a family who’ll-- who’ll be able to be with you all the time?” 

“No?” he responds, then realizes exactly what it is Cor is asking. “No! I want-- I wish to remain with you, Cor. You are the one who rescued me from the facility, from everything, and I want-- unless you want me to go, then I will, but--” 

Cor cuts off his ramblings with a sigh. “I don’t want you to go either, Prompto, but I-- don’t know if I can provide exactly what it is you need.” 

“And what is it I need?” Prompto queries, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. 

“Normalcy,” Cor says after a short pause. 

“That is not what I need. What I need is to stay with you.” 

Cor goes silent, the asks softly, “Are you sure?”

Prompto’s answer is firm, and Cor gives a weak smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompto has, at least once in his short life, attempted to scan his barcode while checking out at the grocery store


	11. respond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto cares for a dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back (back) back again
> 
> it's-a me! costco!
> 
> thank you guys so much for all the support and kind words. and kudos and comments and just. everything!! it really means the world to me.
> 
> some updates:
> 
> -the new writing schedule i've been on has been so much better for me and this story in general, and i thank you all so much for understanding. updates will slow down to a new chapter once every two to three months, but i promise it'll be worth it!  
> -i made a twitter account just to talk to you guys so if you want to talk or anything at all send it my way! i'll retweet ffxv stuff from time to time and post updates on the story too. also, pictures of my dog. i love my dog. find me at [CostcoDreams](https://twitter.com/CostcoDreams)
> 
> also lov [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori/pseuds/phori)

Cor stops asking Prompto if he wants to stay with someone else, but the words never fade from the back of Prompto’s mind. He adjusts to school, promoting from elementary school after a few short years. Prompto still-- Rogo went to a different class, and Mrs. Docere does not teach higher grades. 

For the most part, Prompto is alone. 

He still watches the black haired boy. He doesn’t take pictures of him-- that’d be rude! But he watches him nevertheless. The boy disappeared halfway through the last year of Elementary school-- fifth grade. He does not come back until a year into Middle school. He walks differently now, compensating for something that Prompto knows not. It is not his business, anyways. 

Photography becomes Prompto’s passion. He takes pictures of everything with the small red camera Cor bought him so long ago. He experiments with composition and lighting, learning what makes a good picture and what makes a great one. His stuffed chocobo-- Bobo, a voice whispers in the back of his head-- is a willing test subject and helps him learn. The fur has long since worn down, no longer quite as soft or fluffy as it once was, but the thought of parting with the chocobo makes Prompto’s chest constrict. It’s childish, he knows, but, well. Cor tells him it’s okay to be a child, so a child Prompto will be.

He’s still not-- quite as human as he’d like, but he does the best he can to be normal. Normal, for him at least, is to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, staying out of the way of his classmates and teachers. He never raises his hand or asks for direction; a part of him is stuck in the belief that asking for clarification will result in-- 

Nope, he doesn’t think about that any more. He  _ doesn’t.  _ Now, Prompto thinks about chocobos, and meeting one for real, or getting to know the boy in black, or seeing Cor more often. There are a lot of things for him to think about other than--  _ that place. _

Since Middle school is closer and Prompto is older, he walks to and from school. Some days, Cor walks with him, but those are very rare.

One day, when Cor is working overtime, Prompto meets a dog. It’s hardly a dog, and more of a puppy. It is unaccompanied by anyone, and something-- there’s blood on its paw, matting its white fur and turning it an ugly brown color. The puppy itself has its eyes squeezed shut as it whimpers on the side of the road. 

Prompto isn’t thinking as he kneels down next to the puppy, holding a hand out for it to sniff. It accepts his proffered hand, sniffing weakly and then giving him a gentle lick. 

“Is it okay if I pick you up?” he asks the small dog, fully aware there will be no response. There is none, other than a slight tilt of the dog’s head and it curling further in on itself. 

Prompto takes that as acceptance and reaches down and scoops up the puppy. It barely weighs anything. 

“You’re so tiny,” he mutters to himself. The puppy gives a small, pitiful whine, prompting him to hold it closer to his chest. “You must be cold. Let’s go to my house.” 

He ferries the puppy home. He knows logically that he will not be able to keep her-- he’s decided calling the puppy ‘her’ is fine, she looks like a girl, and it’s certainly better than calling her an ‘it’-- but he still wants to help. She looks well-groomed, and her fur is unbelievably soft. Softer than Bobo used to be, Prompto thinks. Still, she’ll need a bath, as mud coats her underside and he doesn’t want her wound to get infected.

He fumbles with the house keys, carefully clutching the puppy with one hand and the keys with the other. He unlocks the door after a minute or so of searching for the correct key. The door swings open into a dark house. 

“I’m home,” Prompto calls out as he turns a light on. The blinds are open, but on a cloudy day like this it’s best to turn the lights on too. He sets the puppy down on a towel he’s pulled out from the laundry room and sets to work removing his shoes, and replacing his contacts with glasses. He normally wouldn’t, but his eyes are getting itchy-- probably allergies, and he doesn’t want to aggravate his eyes any more. When the puppy makes eye contact with him, she tilts her head and whines once. Prompto averts his gaze. 

“I know,” he says quietly, “but please let me help you! I don’t want you to have to hurt any more, Tiny.” The name slips out, but it works. The newly christened Tiny whines once, but when Prompto extends his hand for her to sniff once more, she licks him again. Prompto cups her small body in his hands and carries her to the bathroom after shifting her to under his arm and picking up the towel that she was sitting on. He makes sure the bath’s water is warm before submerging Tiny, making sure that her head remains all the way out of the water. Brown and red pool out around her, the blood thankfully much less present than the mud.

“We don’t have any dog shampoo, so I’m going to use regular soap,” he tells her. “I don’t think human shampoo would be good for you.”

True to his word, Prompto grabs the bar of soap and rubs it into a washcloth that was draped around the faucet of the tub. He then scrubs Tiny, the mud and blood coming off easily and staining the water a dark, murky brown. Eventually, Tiny is a pristine, almost ethereal white. Prompto lifts her up out of the water and places her down on the towel. She shakes, and the water flies.

“Stop, Tiny! You’re getting me all wet,” Prompto laughs. Tiny opens her mouth in response, her small pink tongue lolling out of her mouth in a happy pant. Prompto laughs once more, then reaches into the bathroom cupboard and pulls out a generic first-aid kit. He grabs some gauze from inside and wraps it around Tiny’s injury. Luckily, the wound is barely bleeding anymore, and blood does not soak through the gauze. 

“You feeling any better?” Prompto asks as he replaces the kit. Tiny walks across the towel, putting careful pressure on her injured leg, and to his side. She puts her two front paws on Prompto’s knee and leans forward, trying to reach his face. 

“What is it?” he asks, responding to Tiny’s silent plea by leaning forward. She lunges forward and licks his cheek once before falling back down to his knee. Prompto laughs, caught off guard by the wet assault. “That’s not cool, Tiny!” he exclaims. She doesn’t respond to his giggles, instead choosing to curl up in Prompto’s lap, soaking his pants. Prompto grabs the towel and begins drying her off.

It’s incredible, he thinks to himself, that such a smart dog like like Tiny would trust him enough to fall drift off in his lap, even after seeing his eyes.

“Want to know a secret?” he asks after she’s as dry as she’s going to get. Tiny looks up at him, dark brown eyes staring gently. “You’re the first person, well, animal, that I’ve ever let know about-- me. I’m not-- human, did you know that, Tiny? Could you tell?” Prompto’s voice wavers as he speaks. “I have-- I used to have daemon blood instead of red blood, and even now my blood’s not fully red. I’ve got ports and scars and-- no human kid has them and I’m just-- I always feel less than, and not-- Cor tries his best and he’s really good, but he’s-- I don’t know.”

Tiny whines and puts a paw on Prompto’s knee. He gives her a half-smile, and gently rubs her head with his hand. It’s still wet, but he doesn’t really care. There are worse things to be than wet. 

Prompto picks Tiny up, using both hands to support her admittedly small body. She lays limply in his hand, which Prompto finds weird. Don’t most dogs wiggle and stuff when they’re being held? Tiny stays as still as a statue, and doesn’t move other than to turn her head to look at him as he carries her. 

“You’re a good girl,” he says as he sits down on the couch, setting Tiny down in his lap. She yawns once, and Prompto nods. “You wanna go to sleep?” She blinks sleepily, which Prompto takes as a yes. He moves so that he’s lying down, and Tiny is sitting on his lap. She stands and makes a circle, then flops down right by his neck so she’s as close to his face as she’s going to get. She stretches her neck and licks his chin once, then returns to being a small ball of white fur.

“Thank you,” Prompto says. If Tiny is blurry for other reasons than him not wearing his contacts, well that’s no one’s business but his own. 

 

* * *

 

When Prompto wakes up two hours later, Tiny is still in the exact same place. He doesn’t know why, but for whatever reason he expected her to be gone when he woke up. Maybe it’s because most people he’s met-- no, he doesn’t get to think that. It’s fine. Tiny is here, and that’s-- well, he’ll take it for what it is. She’s still sleeping on his chest, tiny snores coming from her direction every couple of seconds. 

Prompto smiles. “Good girl.”   
Tiny opens her eyes, staring at him through half-lidded eyes. She yawns, revealing rows of tiny white teeth. Prompto can’t tell if it was his voice or the movement of his chest that woke her. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “for waking you. I-- um, also have to get up because it’s-- well, late, and Cor doesn’t like it when I sleep on the couch.” Tiny opens her eyes fully and stands, stretching on Prompto’s chest. Her small feet dig into Prompto’s chest, but he can’t find it in himself to mind. He notices that she’s not putting as much weight on her injured paw, but that’s to be expected. She then moves to the end of the couch so she’s no longer standing on Prompto, and sits down, almost as if she’s waiting for Prompto to rise. 

“Thank you,” he says as he stands. He scoops Tiny up in his arms and brings her to his bedroom. There are framed pictures on the wall of various landscapes, and, of course, chocobos, while his stuffed chocobo sits on the bed next to his pillow. There’s a single window, and Prompto has several small succulents arranged in a neat row along the windowsill. 

He places Tiny down on the chocobo-themed comforter. “You stay here. I’m gonna-- go brush my teeth and stuff, okay?” She responds by circling around a few times before flopping down near Bo-- his stuffed chocobo. Prompto grabs his pajamas, bringing them to the bathroom with him. For whatever reason, the thought of changing in front of Tiny-- a dog!-- makes him feel deeply uncomfortable.

He brushes his teeth and changes, then walks back to his room. Tiny is lying down exactly where he last saw her, pressed against the side of Bobo. Her uninjured paw supports her chin while her injured one is tucked beneath her body. Prompto smiles softly, and sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to disrupt the sleeping puppy.

He goes over a mental checklist, making sure he’s done all that he needs to do before retiring for the night. He brushed his teeth, put his contacts in the contact solution, set the alarm, and-- oh, he forgot to take his wristband off. He does so, setting the fuzzy, green sweatband on his bedside table, uncovering the harsh black lines that lie beneath. 

Prompto sighs, glancing at Tiny for a brief second. It’s not like he doesn’t see the barcode every night, but every time he even glances at it or its covering he is-- overwhelmed. Unfeeling metal may litter his body, but nothing says he was once a possession of the Niflheim Empire like a barcode. It used to not bother him-- well, not as much, but once he started deliberately hiding it, it felt less like a remnant of a bygone past and more of-- something he can never let anyone know, ever. 

He traces over the slightly raised skin and sighs. 

“NH-01987,” he says without having to look. “Unit 05953234.” 

He turns to face Tiny, who’s lifted her head up and is looking at Prompto. “You know-- back when I was--  _ there _ , I never thought to ask, ‘ _ what does the NH stand for’ _ ? Now it-- y’know, I can’t stop thinking about it.” Tiny tilts her head, asking an impossible question. “Cor thinks-- Cor thinks it stands for Niflheim, which makes sense, but you wanna know what I think it stands for?” Tiny gives no response. Prompto swallows and wets his lips. “I think-- I think it stands for non-human. ‘Cause I wasn’t, and I’m not.”

Tiny whines and pushes her nose into Prompto’s side after crawling over to his leg. Prompto pats her head. He gives a small smile that he has a feeling looks more like a grimace. Regardless, strokes her soft fur and lies down. She returns to her spot next to Bobo, who Prompto refrains from pulling closer. It’s almost relaxing. 

Tiny falls asleep before him, her small snores lulling Prompto into a deep sleep. “

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Prompto wakes to Tiny lying in the same spot she was when he previously woke up from his nap. His alarm is on, loud, annoying beeps penetrating the stillness of the morning. Tiny sits up as the beeps get louder, and eventually begins howling as Prompto ignores the wake-up call. 

Her howl is a louder noise than Prompto thought she could make, a full-bodied sound that warbles and wavers. He pats her head and she stops. He then turns the alarm off, sliding out of bed.

“Stay,” he commands as he grabs his clothes and walks to the bathroom. He still leaves the door open in case Tiny decides to not heed his command. He doesn’t want to trap her, after all. He showers quickly, then brushes his teeth and puts his contacts in. For a few minutes, he just stares at his face. After having talked to Tiny-- a dog!-- the previous night, he feels-- his body doesn’t-- it’s weird, is all. His eyes are a light purple, and there are freckles scattered about his face. His face and body are lean, all sharp angles and boney points. His chest-- there’s the port on top of his heart, and one on the left side of his stomach. He turns, revealing the port on his right bicep. He remembers that one used to be where they’d inject all sorts of different stuff. It wasn’t daemon blood-- that went in through the heart port, but he thinks it might’ve once been used to inject nutrients into his bloodstream. He knows there’s another port on his back, right where his neck meets his body. 

His shoulders slump and he hastily throws his shirt on. He can’t change anything, but it sure is easy to just… think about things. He exits the bathroom, returning to his room where Tiny is waiting. It doesn’t look like she’s moved from the place on his bed.

“Good dog!” Prompto calls out. She jolts, springing upward before her gaze lands on Prompto. She stretches, her tail wagging, then jumps off the bed and moves towards where Prompto is standing. Tiny dances about his feet, and Prompto has to try very hard not to step on her fragile feet. “Hello to you too!” he laughs. Tiny yips once, then sits right in front of Prompto. “It seems your foot is feeling better.” She lifts the injured foot in question and licks the bandage on it once. He leans down and pats her head, then grabs some socks from his drawer. 

“I really have to get to school soon,” he says. “I’ll leave a note for Cor so he knows why you’re here, and then we’ll put up some signs so your owners can come and find you, alright?” Tiny happily circles around Prompto’s feet once more, then moves past him into the hallway. Prompto smiles.

He follows Tiny out into the hall and then into the living room. He moves into the kitchen where he quickly writes a note and puts it on the table. He pats Tiny one last time. “Be a good girl!” he calls out as he opens the front door. 

The walk to school is short, and the air outside is the perfect temperature for walking. Prompto feels better than he has in a long time-- he knows Tiny has a family out there, looking for her, but Prompto will make the most of the time they have together. 

The entire school day, Tiny is all he thinks of. He’s so excited to get home-- he was already excited because Cor’s probably going to be home early, but now he also gets to see Tiny! Even the thought makes him walk with a spring in his step.

The walk home feels longer than it normally is, and Prompto is rushing the entire way, his backpack gripped tight in his hands. By the time he’s reached the house, he’s slightly out of breath from how fast he had been sprinting. He really needs to work on his stamina, he thinks as he opens the door. 

“I’m home!” he calls out. 

“Welcome back,” Cor’s voice responds as Prompto shuts the door. 

“You managed to get off work early?” Prompto asks, taking his shoes off and searching the hallway for any sign of white fur. 

“Yeah, it is Friday after all.” 

“Mmm,” Promtpo agrees absentmindedly. “Hey, did you get my note?” 

“I did. Was it some kind of joke or something? I didn’t see any dog.” 

“Really?” 

“Really,” Cor confirms. “I don’t mind if you want a dog, you just have to prove that you can take care of it first, if that’s what this was about.” 

“No, it’s just-- there really was a dog. I called her Tiny, and she was small and white and had a hurt paw. I was gonna put up signs today so we could find her owner ‘cause she was too well-groomed to be a stray, but I guess-- well, I hope she found her way home.” 

Cor starts as Prompto mentions the hurt paw. “Did she have, uh, a darker stripe of fur under one of her eyes?” 

“Yeah, she did! Why, did you see her on your way back?” 

“No, not exactly. I-- well, rest assured kid that she found her way home safely and you should probably expect some mail in the future.” 

“Okay,” Prompto says. He fights to keep his voice from wavering. It really-- it hurts that Tiny is no longer here, that she has gone home. He is glad she managed to return home-- he trusts Cor’s word-- but she was nice to have around. Her fur was soft, is the pervading thought in Prompto’s head. 

If nothing else, he will remember that. 

 

* * *

 

“ _ So squirt, what’s going on in Lucis? _ ” Aranea asks him later that night. 

“I found a dog with a hurt paw,” Prompto says. 

“ _ Oh? _ ”

“She went home though.”    
“ _ Ah. Was it nice having her for some time though? _ ”  

“Yes. I called her Tiny, and she was very soft.”

“ _ Lemme guess, she was small?”  _

“Very.” 

“ _ What was she like? Did you enjoy having her?”  _

“She was pure white and had darker markings under her eyes. She was a very good girl,” Prompto ends with a coo. 

Aranea snorts. “ _ You like dogs? _ ”

“Of course! Dogs are the best.”

“ _ They are pretty good. When I was younger, I always wanted to get a Husky. Never panned out, but that’s probably for the best. _ ”

“Oh yeah,” Prompto thinks, “How is it going in Niflheim? Are you doing okay?”  
“ _Never better. The Rebellion’s gotten way bigger, and there are actually some people who can aim a gun. I swear, half of dumbasses are idiots who just want a cause to die for.”_

“What do you mean by that?” 

“ _ Well, when you get into the military, there’s two types of people. Dumb kids who are looking for something to give them direction, something they can dedicate their lives to without ever thinking about what they’re actually doing. Those are the ones who want to be at the front lines, winning glory or some shit. _ ”

“And the other kind?” 

_ “Well, those are the folks you gotta look out for on the battlefield. They’re the ones who want to live.” _

“Hm,” Prompto says contemplatively. He’s never thought of it that way. Aranea’s rebellion really is different from the army Prompto was raised to be in. There were no ‘ _ two types of people _ .’ Just units who were lucky enough to be born with few enough malfunctions to exist long enough to make it to the field. 

He voices this though to Aranea, and she sighs. “ _ That’s exactly why we’re fighting, Prom. _ ”

That is all she says on that subject. 

 

* * *

 

The next day is a Saturday, and Prompto wakes to a solid pressure on his chest. He blinks his eyes open sleepily, gazing drearily at the object. It is a pure white, the color of fresh snow, with two dark, warm eyes that are wide with excitement. 

Prompto shoots up, the dog running off of his chest before he does, as if anticipating his actions. “Tiny?” he all but yells. She runs back up to Prompto’s chest where she puts her paws, one of which has a letter attached. Prompto smiles, his grin splitting his face in two. “It’s so good to see you! I thought I’d never see you again.” Tiny ‘woofs’ quietly and runs in a circle, picking up on Prompto’s enthusiasm. 

“What do you have tied to your paw?” he asks. Tiny sits, holding out her paw in response. Prompto’s still grinning as he unties the rolled-up paper, and pats Tiny’s head as payment for her good work. She leans into his hand, and Prompto finds himself scratching hind the ear as he back leg thumps. He laughs quietly, the hand holding the letter going to cover his mouth and muffle his laughs. He doesn’t want Cor to wake up, after all.

Eventually, Prompto stops and opens the letter. He idly notes that the paper the letter is written on is much higher quality than he is used to: so much so that the paper almost feels like finer quality than those napkins they give you at restaurants. At the very least, the paper feels softer. 

He unfolds the letter and notes that the handwriting contained within is much neater than his own, not that that’s hard to do in any way, as Prompto has been told that his handwriting sucks on multiple occasions. He shoves those distractions away and begins reading.

 

“ _ Dear friend,  _

_ I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you so very much for looking after Pryna for me. Intelligent though she may be, she is still just a dog and prone to getting in trouble, so truly, you have my gratitude.  _

“Is that your name?” Prompto asks, “Pryna?” Tiny-- Pryna?-- yips once and wags her tail. “Huh. It sounds familiar somehow.” He shakes his head then returns to reading. 

_ Pryna seems to have truly found a friend in you, if how excited she was to see you again was anything to go by. I wish I had the honor of meeting you in person, but unfortunately circumstances dictate that I must remain where I am.  _

_ Although you have already done so much for me, I have another favor to ask you. Noctis Lucis Caelum is a dear friend of mine, and I know for a fact that he is very lonely. He tells me he is not, but I know better. Please, dear friend, would you try to give him some company? Pryna having warmed up to you so quickly tells me that you are a good person, and though I wish I could, I cannot be there for Noctis the way you can.  _

_ I know it is a lot to ask, and if you cannot, rest assured that I do not expect you to do anything. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done.  _

_ If you wish to contact me in the future, I’m sure Pryna would be happy to deliver, and I would love to get to know the person who saved her. Besides, she needs the exercise.  _

_ Sincerely yours,  _

_ Lunafreya Nox Fleuret” _

 

Prompto stares at the letter, then at Ti-- Pryna. Pryna stares back, ears perked and tongue lolling out of her mouth. 

“She wants me to become friends with Prince Noctis?” he asks. Pryna moves forward and pushes her head against Prompto’s arm, prompting him to pet her, which he complies with unthinkingly. “Lunafreya--  _ Lady _ Lunafreya wants me to be friends with Prince Noctis… How would-- I don’t want the friendship to be disingenuous, but I also don’t want to let Lady Lunafreya down! And can I even be friends with the prince? Like, legally? I know Clarus doesn’t want me anywhere near the royal family, but Lady Lunafreya does? But Lady Lunafreya doesn’t know about  _ me _ unless you told her, ‘cause I know you’re not just a normal dog, Pryna. Can you talk?” Pryna barks once. “That’s a no, so she doesn’t know about me and I don’t know if I can do this, I mean, why would the prince want to be friends with someone-- some _ thing  _ like me, and--” Prompto cuts himself off, suddenly very aware that he is spilling his heart to a magical dog. 

He sighs and rubs his eyes, which had become somewhat blurry. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits quietly to Pryna. “I’m not-- brave enough to talk to the prince, and even if I were, even if I  _ could _ , why would he give me the time of day? I’m sure he’s very nice, but I don’t--” Prompto sighs. “I can’t even work up the courage to speak to the boy in black, how could I talk to the future ruler of Lucis?” 

Pryna puts her head on Prompto’s knee, grounding him. 

“Thanks, girl.” He sighs. “It would be rude to not write her back, wouldn’t it?” There is no word from Pryna, but Prompto already knows the answer. He grabs a piece of lined paper from his desk and begins writing. It feels wrong to respond to the Oracle with such a mundane item-- it’s nowhere near as fancy as the paper she wrote to him with-- but it’s all Prompto has, so it’ll have to do.

It’ll have to do.

 

“ _ Dear Lady Lunafreya (is it okay if I use your name?), _

_ My name is Prompto Argentum, and it’s really nice to talk to you. It was no problem looking after Ti,”  _ Prompto pauses and scratches out the beginning of a mistake and continues, “ _ Pryna. She is a very good dog, after all!  _

_ I’m sorry, I really don’t know what to write in here. I’ve never really had anyone to send letters to before, so this is all new to me. I don’t know why you’d want to be a penpal with a simple guy like me, but I’ll try and be someone you can be proud to be friends with. _

_ I promise to do my best to become friends with Prince Noctis, but honestly I don’t know how well it’ll work. I don’t want it to be disingenuous-- you understand, right? It would feel wrong to be friends with someone just as a favor. There’s also some,”  _ Prompto pauses, wondering what he could write to explain his circumstances before shrugging and writing, “ _ extenuating circumstances that might prevent me from getting close to Prince Noctis.  _

_ Of course I’ll do everything I can! You can count on me to do that, at the very least. Thank you, Lady Lunafreya, for giving me the chance to meet Pryna. She-- and you-- helped me a lot. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Prompto Argentum” _

 

Prompto stands back and examines the letter, and, once happy with his word choice and sentiments, turns to Pryna. 

“Do I just tie it on your foot?” 

Pryna lifts her foot, and Prompto shrugs. He ties the letter to her foot as Pryna lets loose small ‘woofs.’ As he ties the string, she attempts to lick his hand, succeeding intermittently. Prompto giggles quietly. 

Pryna turns in a circle, barks one last time, and disappears. Prompto-- Prompto doesn’t know what to think of that, so he doesn’t.

He exits his room and walks over to where Cor is sitting at the kitchen table. 

“Morning Prompto,” he greets. 

“Good morning Cor!” Prompto returns cheerfully. There’s a bounce in his step and a lightness in his chest he hasn’t felt for a long time. 

“You’re looking happy this morning,” he remarks, taking a sip from his coffee. “I heard you talking to someone earlier-- was it Aranea?”

“No, um, you were right about getting mail.”

“Getting mail…? Oh, you mean-- so that came today?” 

Prompto nods. “Why didn’t you tell me the dog I rescued was the Oracle’s magic dog?” 

Cor shrugs. “Seemed like something you should get to find out on your own. Anyways, what did she write to you?” 

“Um, oh--” Prompto hesitates for a split second, before saying, “she wants me to become friends with the prince.” 

Cor pauses, putting the coffee in his hand down on the table. “And what did you say?” he asks, his tone carefully controlled. 

“I said--” Prompto hesitates once more, before answering somewhat firmly, “I said that I would try. I told her I don’t want to force anything but-- I don’t want to let her down. I am-- I want to be someone dependable, and I want to be Prince Noctis’s friend.”

Cor is silent. “I won’t be the one to stop you,” he says. “But I’m not who you need to worry about.”

“I know. Clarus--”

“I’m not talking about Clarus. Sure, he’s a stickler for rules and won’t let anyone he knows to be a threat near the royal family, but he’s known you for long enough that he knows you’re not really a threat.” Prompto snorts quietly, but says nothing contradicting Cor’s statement. “What you really have to worry about is the Council.”

“Why would I have to worry about the Council? Didn’t King Regis only tell Clarus about my, uh, circumstances?” 

Cor nods. “The Council knows nothing of your past, but what they do know is you appear to be a simple commoner, and the Council really wouldn’t like anyone outside of the royal retinue getting close to the prince.” 

“Aren’t you… y’know. A part of the royal retinue?”   
“Yes, but the Council does not know of your connection to me, because then there would be questions as to why the Marshal took in a foreign child.” 

“Oh,” Prompto says. He didn’t know-- was Cor ashamed of him? No, that’s not what he said, but a part of him feels betrayed, almost. “Didn’t you used to take me to Kingsglaive training?”

“Yeah, but all those who ever saw it either got kicked out or assigned elsewhere, and those who remained in Insomnia know better than to gossip about me.” Cor sighs. “Between you and me, the prince really needs a friend. Not someone who’s with him because they’re obligated to, like his Shield and Advisor.”

Prompto swallows. “Okay,” he says, feeling distinctly hypocritical. Is it wrong of him to want to become friends because of Lady Lunafreya? He doesn’t even know the prince, and Prompto just forcing his way into Prince Noctis’s life is-- wrong; besides, who’d even want someone like Prompto at their side? Prompto’s-- not anything, he’s a broken machine picked up by a man who pitied him, that’s all he is and all he’ll ever be--

“I can see you spiralling,” Cor says, and Prompto jolts back to reality. He swallows nervously. 

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for. You-- you’re not the kind of kid who just uses people to fulfill a goal. I know if you do become friends with the prince, it’ll be-- okay. You’ll be fine.”

Prompto nods. There’s a lot more he wants to say, but he can’t find the words or his voice.

“You’ll be fine,” Cor says but he sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself. 

 

* * *

 

The first step is finding out what the prince looks like. Prompto feels like that’s something he should know, but he really doesn’t pay attention much to the news or tabloids, and he knows King Regis is doing everything he can to keep Prince Noctis out of the spotlight. The only thing Prompto really knows about Prince Noctis is that he goes to his school. 

He opens Moogle on his phone and types ‘prince noctis picture,’ which is results in thousands of results. He taps to images and stares at the photo. He blinks once, twice, a third time. There’s-- there’s no way! It’s too big of a coincidence-- there’s no way that the boy he’s wanted to befriend all this time is the prince. 

Something in Prompto relaxes. He’s so glad-- glad that the prince isn’t some unapproachable figure like his father, isn’t untouchable-- he’s lonely, just like Prompto. Then Prompto feels guilty, because he shouldn’t wish that on anybody, but a part of him is--

Prompto doesn’t listen to that part of himself, doesn’t let himself. It’s not right. 

Regardless, he’s glad Prince Noctis is the boy in black, the one who he always wanted to but could never get the courage to befriend. He had figured-- that he would try, but wouldn’t have anything to connect with Prince Noctis and they wouldn’t-- he would be able to say he tried. 

It’s still unbelievably stressful. Prompto knows he’s overthinking it, but still! What prince would want to be friends with Prompto? Then again, he now knows the prince is nothing but a teenager, just like him, so maybe-- being a teenager doesn’t guarantee anything, as no kid so far has wanted to be Prompto’s friend. 

Regardless, he has to try. Prompto knows King Regis is kind, so Prince Noctis might be the same, right? He knows that genetics is no guarantee of anything-- he has to cling to that, or else he might-- that’s not important, but Prince Noctis must have picked something up from his father, right?  
Prompto will just have to hope.

 

* * *

 

Prompto wakes up early the Monday morning to style his hair. He stares in the mirror, red eyes glancing at themselves briefly then moving on to flat, unshaped hair. Prompto’s had the same hairstyle ever since he gained the ability to grow it out, but there needs to be a change. He can’t be the shy boy, unable to speak or to interact anymore. He has to be-- he has to be Prompto, someone who the prince of Insomnia wants to be friends with. Who is that? Prompto wonders to himself. 

He thinks of who he’d want to be friends with. It doesn’t work-- he’d like to be friends with anyone, and he doubts Prince--

No, he has to stop doing that. Thinking of the boy in black as only the prince. He’s not. He’s more than that. He’s not some untouchable figure, lined up to sit in the throne. He’s a highschool student who always looks so, so lonely. And that-- that’s something Prompto can relate to. Prompto’s only connection to people his age is his photos, and those are always-- Prompto’s always out of frame. The outsider looking in. He can’t be that person anymore.

Prompto knows who he wants to be. 

 

* * *

 

Prompto rubs his wristband once, a quick check to make sure that everything that needs to stay hidden stays hidden, then rushes forward. He doesn’t give himself time to think. 

“Hey there, Prince Noctis!” He slaps the other on the back, and regrets it immediately after, but he’s committed. “I’m Prompto! Nice to meet you!”

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” 

Prompto smiles and laughs. Noctis grins back and slaps Prompto’s back in return, and the two slip into comfortable silence.

So this is what it’s like, Prompto thinks as the two walk side-by-side down the halls.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COR: Hey dude, what’s going on?  
> PROMPTO: Teenage rebellion.  
> COR: Fuck yeah, stick it to the old people.


	12. routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompto settles into a routine with noct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh heya guys! I'm back! I am so sorry for the long wait, but school began to pile up with finals and graduation (yeehaw!) that I had to take a short break from writing, but I'm back and it's summertime baybee! i've got four months of summer because college doesn't start until late september so that's four months to write! i will be taking it a little easier writing to avoid burnout so updates will come a little slower, but hopefully not as slow as this one!
> 
> anyways, i've talked enough, thank you all so much!
> 
> as always, i love you [phori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phori/pseuds/phori)

 

Having Noctis-- Noct, he tells Prompto late one night at the arcade, as Prompto summarily kicks Noctis’s ass at some zombie shooting game-- as a friend is way easier than Prompto expected. Noct is easy to talk to, easy to hang out with, and it feels like nothing Prompto’s ever experienced before. Sure he’s had Cor and Aranea, but Cor’s his guardian, and Aranea’s-- well, he doesn’t quite know what Aranea is to him but he knows she’s someone important. Where Prompto would refrain from sending her a cute picture of a chocobo chick he found, he now sends eagerly to Noct, who replies with the appropriate amount of emojis and “ _prom you sent this at 2 am_.”

Having Noct as a friend is so nice, and Prompto is beyond grateful to Luna, who he sends letters to on occasion. It’s always nice to hear from her and see Pryna, who grows bigger by the day. 

Prompto tends to not let Noctis hang out at his place, mainly because he doesn’t want to have to explain how Cor is his d-- guardian, but at the same time feels guilty for keeping something like that from him. He feels guilty for keeping most things from him. 

He figures Luna told Noct about him already, so he doesn’t have to worry about that, but-- there’s everything else, things only the top official of Lucis, Aranea, a magical dog and all the researchers in Niflheim know. 

Those are the things Prompto keeps secret. 

 

* * *

 

“Noct!” Prompto yells out, slinging an arm around Noct’s shoulders. “How’s it hanging, buddy?” he asks with a smile. 

Noct answers with his own half smile. “I don’t know, Prompto, I’m not the one hanging off someone’s shoulders like a monkey.”

“Rude!” Prompto exclaims, closing his eyes and sticking his tongue out slightly. Noct responds with a full smile and laughs, Prompto laughing easily along. Laughter comes so easily to him nowadays. 

As the laughter slowly trails off, Noct asks, “Hey, you have any plans for after school today?” Prompto knows this just a pleasantry. Noct  _ knows _ he has nothing else going on. 

“Nah,” Prompto answers, putting his hands behind his head, making a mock-pillow with his hands. “Y’know, like usual.”

“You wanna hang out at the arcade after school?”

“Hell yeah, you know I do!” Noct laughs once more, Prompto quirking the side of his mouth up in response. Hearing Noct laugh is really nice, especially when he knows Noct is laughing because of something he said. It’s a marked change from how Noct looked before they were friends. 

The bell rings and Noct shakes his head. He waves to Prompto with an easy, “See you later!” and begins heading to class.

“See ya!” Prompto calls back and heads towards his first class of the day. The rest of the day passes easily, Prompto’s math and science classes passing by in a breeze. It sucks that he had to write an essay in Lucian, but there’s not much he can do about that, and it passes the time at the very least. 

The final bell of the day rings and Prompto goes to find Noct. They don’t share many classes-- only P.E. and biology-- so Prompto has to walk to Noct’s class at the end of the day so they can walk to the arcade together. 

“Heya, Noct!” Prompto calls out. Noct lifts a hand in greeting, the other holding his phone to his ear. 

“Yeah, Iggy, I know--  _ yes,  _ I  _ know--  _ but I promised my friend--”

Prompto can vaguely hear a disapproving voice coming through the other side, but doesn’t hear any more than that. With the expulsion of most of the daemon blood in his system came the loss of his improved senses, but that’s not a big deal. 

Noct sighs then hangs up.

“Can’t make it?” Prompto asks. 

“Not quite,” Noct says with a frown. “I’ll be able to hang out for about an hour, but then I have to go do… stuff.” 

“I get it man,” Prompto says easily. “You’ve got stuff to do. ‘Sides an hour’s plenty of time to relax.”

“The arcade’s fifteen minutes away--” 

“Which means if we start walking now, we’ll still have forty-five minutes. C’mon dude, I know you’re bad at math, but time too now?” 

Noct rolls his eyes. “Low blow, bro.”

Prompto winks with a grin. “But where would you be without me?” 

“Failing math class, probably,” he jokes as they start walking. Prompto offers a wide grin in response. 

“You know it!” 

Noct rolls his eyes and punches Prompto gently on the arm. “Why do I even hang out with you?” he asks, smirking all the while. Prompto can’t help the brief flash of panic that dominates his senses for a second before he sees the upturned curve of Noct’s lips. It’s-- man, it’s stressful having friends. 

“Again, math class,” he answers. Noct laughs, and that’s good enough for him. 

 

* * *

 

They arrive at the arcade after a few minutes of companionable silence. During their walk, Noct unties his tie and lets it lie loosely on his shoulders and around his neck. Prompto thinks it looks way more comfortable, but he knows that a proper uniform is important for anyone who associates with those of higher social standing. Not that Noct wants or need him to, but Prompto feels better knowing that even if the Council doesn’t agree with his and Noct’s friendship, at least he’s always dressed like someone Noct can be proud to associate with. 

Noct holds the door open for Prompto with a, “Ladies first!”

“Pearls before swine,” Prompto answers, his nose stuck up in the air. 

Noct laughs. “That’s not how the saying’s used.”

“So what? You know what I mean.”

Noct laughs again as he says, “And that, my friend, is why you’re failing Lucian.” 

“Hey, I’m not failing Lucian!” Noct raises an eyebrow. “It’s true, I’m not  _ failing  _ Lucian.” 

“But you’re not getting A’s either.”

“You have me there,” Prompto acquiesces with a grin. It used to bug him that he isn’t getting straight A’s anymore, but Noct has a B in pre-calc-- formerly a C-- so Prompto doesn’t feel all that bad.

“So, what game you want to start with?” Noct asks. Prompto smirks, tilting his head towards a beat-up machine in the back. 

“You know…” he trails off. Noct groans. 

“You always kick my ass at that one!” 

“Exactly.” Despite his complaints, Noct is already walking over to the game. It’s not a hard one-- zombies pop up on the screen, and you shoot them with a plastic gun-- but Noct’s really bad at it. It’s one of Prompto’s favorite games though, so they’re regulars to the game.

“You ready?” Prompto asks as he slides a coin into the slot. 

“You’re on.” 

A countdown appears on the screen and Prompto raises his gun, Noct doing the same. It took Prompto a while to get used to shooting with these guns because the calibration is slightly off, but now that he knows where to aim it’s a piece of cake. He just has to aim 2.154 inches to the right and he’s good to go. 

The timer hits zero and he starts shooting. Zombie here, zombie there, bang, bang. It’s all so simple, so relieving. There’s a part of him that finds it easy to fall into past routine, and he’s both relaxing and tensing up as each zombie hits the ground. He hates how easy it is, but loves it at the same time. It’s all very confusing for him. 

Noct gets out, and Prompto continues for a minute or two more before allowing himself to be swallowed by a horde of zombies. He places the gun back on its pedestal and turns to Noct, who shakes his head. 

“Damn, Prom,” he says, “I have no idea how you manage that every single time.”

“It’s a gift,” Prompto says lightly.

Noct laughs, then says, “C’mon, let’s play something we both suck at now?”

“Move Move Insurrection?” 

“You know it,” Noct grins. 

“I know I’ve said it before,” Prompto says as they walk to the machine and put their coins in, “but they really need to find a better name for it!” 

“Like?” Noct asks, humouring Prompto as he chooses a song from the list. 

“I dunno. I mean, it’s not really about moving, it’s about dancing! And insurrection is such a weird word. Something like Dance Dance--” He is abruptly cut off by the start of a song. Prompto recognizes it as one of Noct’s favorites, and is one of the only songs that either of the two is good at. 

“Aw man, more emo stuff?” 

“‘Choosing Hope’ is not emo,” Noct sniffs with fake indignation. “Besides it’s easier than that EDM shit you like.”

“Boo.”

“Why are you booing me? I’m right.”

“Don’t you-- whatever, just start the song,” Prompto concedes, moving into position on the glowing LED pad. Noct grins and hits play, the song starting immediately after. 

Prompto’s doing his best to hit all the arrows, but he’s just not as coordinated-- at least in this sense-- as he used to be. He misses a lot of the moves while Noct has an almost perfect score. Prompto keeps trying, but he’s staring at Noct as he dances, not the screen. He can’t help it-- he just looks like a fish Noct’s just reeled in flopping around on the ground to an unspecified beat. From the look on his face, Noct’s really into it. 

Eventually, their machines show that it’s the end of the song. As expected, Noct kicks Prompto’s ass, but Prompto’s grinning any way. He steps off of the slightly raised platform and over to Noct’s side, bowing and holding out a hand mockingly. 

“Does my Prince require assistance?” Noct steps off and gently hits the back of Prompto’s head, ending with his arm slung around Prompto’s shoulders. The grip tightens into headlock, and suddenly Noct’s giving Prompto a noogie. 

“Hey!” Prompto squawks. “Don’t mess with the do!” he exclaims in mock outrage. “It takes a long time to fix up!”

“Man, you actually style that?” Noct teases. “I just thought you woke up with bedhead.” 

“Excuse you, Mr. Prince of Sleep, if anyone has bedhead here it’s you.”

“Nah, Ignis won’t let me leave the house if there’s a hair out of place.”

Prompto hums. “Fair enough. By the way, you’ve mentioned him before, but who is Ignis?”

“He’s like-- my advisor, kinda? Well, when I-- you know, he will be, but for now he’s more like if a nanny got it on with a really strict secretary. 

Prompto snorts. “You sound too close to him for that to be all he is to you.”

Noct gives Prompto an appraising look, eyebrows slightly raised. “You’re pretty perceptive there, Prom. You been watching me a lot?” 

Prompto flushes. “It’s not-- I just-- y’know, whenever you talk on the phone to him, you always-- y’know-- look fond, if frustrated.”

Noct nods. “I was just messing with you,” Noct says, then adds, “Yeah, I’ve known him my entire life, so even if he gets on my nerves I can’t stay too mad at him for long. Plus he’s good at cooking, so.”

“Aw shoot man, is he the one who packs your lunches?” Noct nods, and Prompto copies. Man, Ignis is a really good chef. He knows this because sometimes he rushes in the mornings and forgets to pack his lunch-- it happens!-- and Noct will share his lunch with Prompto, who insists that “It’s fine dude, I can just buy school lunch!” to which Noct responds with, “I’m pretty sure the school lunches are just reused car tires, c’mon man it’s not a big deal.” After that, Prompto will reluctantly agree.

“Compliments to the chef, man.” 

Noct snorts, a dignified and princely gesture. “You can tell him yourself, you know. He’s coming to pick me up, I’m sure he wants to meet you.” 

“Oh, uh, I’m not really dressed for the occasion--”

“At least your tie’s still tied.”

“Yeah, but--”

“But what? You’re my friend.”

“I need to make a good first impression! If I don’t, then he might not let us be friends anymore, because ‘ _ oh, it’s no good for the prince to be hanging out with a slob of a commoner, _ ’” Prompto says with a fake Tenebraen accent. 

“What kind of an accent was that?” Noct snorts. “Ignis’s not like that, man. He’s a little uptight, but he won’t-- you passed his screenings, you’re fine. Anyways, how did you even know he has an accent?” 

“There were screenings--?” Prompto’s frozen by momentary panic, but then remembers that his files are classified to everyone but the King, Cor, and Clarus. The panic fades, but his heart still feels like it might pound right out of his chest. “That’s-- nevermind. I didn’t uh, know that he had an accent, I just-- you know, if he’s part of the royal circle, well--”

Noct laughs. “So you thought he might be part of the snobby one percent?” 

“Well, yeah,” Prompto trails off. “I don’t know anything about him! And he knows so much about me--”

“It’s fine, Prompto,” Noct reassures with a small smile. “He’ll like you. Who doesn’t? You’re a puppy-- impossible not to like.” 

“A  _ puppy _ ?”

“It was a metaphor,” Noct grins. Prompto huffs, but smiles with him. There’s a quiet ‘ _ ding _ ,’ and Noct checks his phone, and frowns. “Alright, Ignis’s here. You wanna--?” 

“Sure,” he says quietly. Might as well bite the bullet.

“Lighten up,” Noct says, slinging an arm around Prompto’s shoulders and leading him to the front of the arcade. “It’ll all be fine.”

“Sure,” Prompto says, because that’s all he can say. Noct has lead him outside the arcade to the streetside, where a fancy black car is parked. A sharp looking man-- he’s gotta be older than Prompto, right?-- is standing outside the car. He’s wearing a dress shirt with a vest and tie and his hair lies flat against his head, not a hair out of place. The look is completed by the square glasses that rest against the bridge of his nose. 

Prompto does the only thing he can think of doing. If he’s wrong, he’s gonna look like a complete jackass, but-- “Yo, Iggy!” 

Noct starts next to him and whispers, “Iggy…?” 

The man in question is looking at Prompto as if he just shouted obscenity at him, a scandalized and-- curious?-- look dominating his face. Prompto grins, a look long since perfected in the mirror. The smile that stretches across his face masks the anxiety he feels. Noct will know what Prompto’s doing, but Iggy-- oh god, what has he done?-- won’t. 

“Pardon me?” he says, sounding much like Prompto just punched his grandma in the face. 

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” Prompto says, and his voice cracks on help. He flushes, his face growing warm and his eyes widen as he bites his lip, but keeps smiling, a smaller one. “Sorry, I-- uh-- Noct talks about you a lot and I thought, heck, if Noct likes him then he can’t be that bad, so let’s give him a killer nickname-- and oh astrals, I am so sorry.”

Ignis’s look has shifted from scandalized to something unreadable, and Prompto feels his heart drop. Ah shit, he fucked this up real good, didn’t he? 

“I must admit, when Noct told me about his new friend,  _ this _ is not what I expected.” 

Prompto face grows warmer, if possible, and he stutters, “I-- uh-- sorry--”

“That is not necessarily a bad thing,” Ignis says, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “Perhaps we can start from the beginning? I am Ignis Scientia, and you are?” 

“Prompto Argentum,” he says, holding out a hand that he has to fight to keep steady. Ignis takes it and shakes it once, a firm grip, but not overpowering. 

“Now, I must confess, you look familiar. Have we met somewhere before?”

Prompto thinks back to his past trips to the Citadel, and the blond boy with the folder, and gives a shaky smile. “I don’t think so. Where would we have met, anyways?” 

Ignis frowns. “I suppose you are correct.” He puts his hand to his chin and thinks some more, seemingly lost in thought. 

Noct, apropos of nothing, begins to laugh. “Hey Prompto?”

“Yeah, Noct?”

“What the hell?”

Prompto quirks up one side of his mouth, and he’s sure it looks closer to a grimace than a smile. “Little late for that, bud.” 

“Yeah, but-- what the fuck was that?”

“Language,” Ignis reprimands, still deep in thought. 

“I just-- I thought-- I dunno, Ignis Iggy, it’s all the same, and maybe he wants a nickname? But then, I know, I only know him from what you’ve told me about him and he probably knows nothing about me, and--”

“Believe me, Prompto,” Ignis says, “I know  _ plenty  _ about you.” 

“Uh.”

“That’s creepy, Iggy,” Noct says, as though he hasn’t just nonchalantly used the nickname that’s slowly destroying Prompto’s life.

Ignis sends a disapproving glare Noct’s way. “What I simply meant was that I have heard plenty about Prompto from  _ you _ , Noctis. Of course, I did do a mandatory background check, but that is neither here nor there.” 

“I know Noct told me I passed, but, uh,” Prompto says. “You didn’t, uh, find anything-- weird did you?”

“Nothing other than the time the police had to be called because you got your head stuck in some playground equipment.” 

Prompto flushes, and laughs nervously. “There was a dollar on the ground, of course I had to find a way to get it.” The truth, of course, was that Prompto simply had no idea how to interact with playground equipment, and ended up with his head-- well, no need to relive  _ that _ . 

Noct’s laughing as he asks, “And how old were you?” 

Prompto mutters the answer under his breath. 

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“I was eight, okay! I just-- y’know, dumb kids or whatever--”

Noct claps him on the back. “I’m just messing with you, Prom. We all’ve done stupid things. Take Ignis. When I was five and he was-- oh, seven, maybe?-- he thought that, ‘hey, maybe I’ll go through a rebellious phase’ and--”

“We don’t need to talk about that,” Ignis says, his voice still prim and proper, though his expression is slightly disgruntled. 

“Anyways, his Uncle was taking me to see him in his room and we round the corner and there’s just screamo blasting. There were a ton of people from the Citadel just standing outside his door looking like Iggy--” Prompto and Ignis both start at Noct’s easy proclamation of Ignis’s new? nickname-- “had murdered the king or something. So his Uncle knocks, right? And he’s all like, “Uh, Ignis, Prince Noctis is here” and from inside you hear him scream, louder than the music that was blaring--”

“I think that’s quite enough, Noctis.” 

“No way!” Prompto exclaims. “You can’t just end there.”

“Yeah,  _ Iggy _ , I can’t just end there.” Ignis sighs, but allows Noct to continue. “So, Iggy screams, “THE MONARCHY DOESN’T CONTROL ME! FIGHT THE MAN!” and at that point I was too young to really understand what was going on, but holy sh--” Ignis sends Noct a disapproving look, “crap man, like that is peak comedy right there.” 

“The Real Housewives of Insomnia,” Prompto agrees, causing Ignis to roll his eyes and Noct to snort. 

“Well, this has been entertaining,” Ignis says, “but his highness does have places he must be, so for now, this is goodbye.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Prompto says, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his head, “It was really nice meeting you, and I hope I didn’t make too bad of an impression, and if I did I hope you won’t hold it against me, and, uh--”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Prompto,” Ignis says with a smile. 

“I-- yeah, you too.”

Ignis nods at Noct, who follows him to the car, and holds up a hand in a lazy farewell to Prompto. Prompto grins, and waves goodbye as well, watching as Noct gets into the black car and drives off. 

Prompto sighs, his shoulders relaxing from where they were hiked against his shoulder. He feels his phone buzz, and looks at it. 

_ Sleeping Beauty: IGGY _

 

Prompto huffs at Noct’s reminder and shakes his head. He puts his phone back into his pocket, and turns around to start the walk home. 

 

* * *

 

The next day, when Prompto sees Noct in Bio, Noct greets him with, “Iggy.” Prompto groans. 

“Do you have to keep reminding me?”

“Yes,” Noct says, “because that is the  _ best _ thing I have ever heard in my life.”

Prompto fondly shakes his head. “Whatever, dude. Anyways, got any plans after school?”

“Actually that’s just what I was about to ask you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I was talking to Iggy about this, and he said it was fine, but maybe we could hang out at my apartment together? You could stay the night if you like-- only if you want to!-- but we could finally play  _ Assassin's Creed  _ together.”

“Hm,” Prompto thinks, “I’ll have to ask my guardian, but he’ll probably say yes. Would it be okay if we stop at my house for some clothes first though? I don’t want to be stuck wearing the uniform all night.” 

“Sure thing, Prom,” Noct agrees easily. “Man, this is going to be so much fun.” 

“You sure I won’t be intruding or anything? I don’t want to--”

“You worry too much, Prom! I promise everything’ll be alright.”

“If you say so,” Prompto says with a shrug, and heads to his seat as the bell signaling that there’s only a minute until class starts rings.

Class passes by in a blur, and before Prompto knows it, it’s over. He waves Noct over as he prepares to leave for his next class, P.E. P.E.’s sort of a weird class for Prompto because he always has to change in one of the stalls because of his-- additions, so he’s almost constantly late because by the time he gets to the locker rooms, the bathroom stalls are all taken. 

He taps his foot as he waits for one to open, holding his slightly smelly gym clothes. They only get to take them home at the end of the week, so the stench just kind of accumulates over time. Prompto will be the first to admit that it’s disgusting. 

Prompto jumps as he feels a pressure on his shoulder, and whips around to see Noct standing there, grinning.

“Astrals, dude, you scared me.”

“I know,” Noct says with a grin. “Meet you outside?” he asks as he sees a stall door open. Prompto nods, and holds back a sigh of relief. He won’t be late today!  
He changes quickly, though having to tie a bandana around his exposed ports-- namely, the one on his arm-- slow him down a bit. He then heads outside to where his class is supposed to meet. He spots Noct and heads on over. 

“Hey Prom,” he says. “So I’ve been wondering.”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you always change in the bathroom and not just-- y’know, outside?”

“I-- uh, I’m shy, that’s all!” Prompto says nervously, with a laugh that sounds about as fake as it can get.

“Uh-huh.” 

“It’s true!” he defends. It’s not like he’s _not_ shy about his body, but for reasons that Noct probably doesn’t suspect. After all, who would guess that your friend changes in the bathroom to hide his implants?

Prompto quickly changes, but when he changes his shirt he hesitates before exiting the stall, tracing the outline of slightly raised metal over his heart. It still gets him sometimes that you can’t hear his heart beat-- in fact, he had to be excused from some P.E. lessons because of that. They were supposed to run a mile, then measure their BPM, but for rather obvious reasons, Prompto couldn’t do that. The P.E. teacher-- Mr. Sudore-- had given him a strange look, but allowed it. Prompto frequently heard students complaining about what a hardass Mr. Sudore was, but he never seemed that bad to Prompto. Then again, that was probably because his standards for an athletics instructor are ridiculously low after--

“ARGENTUM!” he hears called. It’s Mr. Sudore. “GET MOVING!” 

“Yessir!” Prompto yelps, rushing out of the stall to place his clothes in his locker and head out to the basketball courts where they meet. 

He sees Noct sitting on his number, because that’s how they call role in P.E. Prompto finds his way to his own number-- three, because Argentum is pretty high up there in the alphabet. Noctis is only a person apart from Prompto, so oftentimes while waiting for roll to be called they lean back and whisper loudly to each other. 

“What made you late this time?” Noct asks. 

“I got distracted,” Prompto sheepishly admits. 

“By what, your--”

“ARGENTUM!” 

“Here!” 

Mr. Sudore calls another name, then, “CAELUM!”

“Here,” Noct says, waving a lazy hand in the air. Mr. Sudore does not look impressed, but he moves on. 

Prompto takes the chance to hiss, “Gross!” at Noct, who winks. Prompto makes a disgusted face, then snaps to attention as Mr. Sudore announces what they will be doing for the day. 

“MILE RUN!” 

Half the class groans, while the other-- doesn’t groan persay, but definitely isn’t all too enthused either. Prompto’s the only one who’s even halfway excited for the mile run, and that’s only because he’s good at running. He’s not entirely sure if he _likes_ running, but it makes him feel good after he’s put in the work, so who knows.

Noct groans. Prompto knows the mile run sucks for Noct because of his back, and winces in sympathy. At the very least, Noct doesn’t have to worry about his time and can jog the entire thing because his dad-- the king!-- wrote him a note explaining things. Prompto knew Noct’s back injury was somewhat covered up, so it made sense that Mr. Sudare would need a note. Who would have thought that a high school gym teacher would be privy to knowledge that really only the top officials in Lucis (and Prompto) knew.

Mr. Sudare excuses them to the field after the class does their morning warm-ups. Prompto and Noct chat as they walk over. 

“Uggghhhh,” Noct groans. 

Prompto pats him on his shoulder sympathetically. “I know, buddy.”

“Yeah, but you’re _good_ at running.” 

“True, but that doesn’t mean that I like it any more than you do.”

“You totally like it more than I do.”

“Yeah, probably.” They mill about on the track next to the start line as Mr. Sudare prepares his stopwatch. 

“GET READY!” he calls out.

“See you on the other side, Noct.”

“THREE! TWO! ONE!” He blows the whistle and Prompto is off in a flash. He hates to admit it, but the mile run is easy. It’s not running until someone faints from exhaustion. It’s just running, and Prompto-- Prompto can appreciate that. 

Before he knows it, Prompto is finishing his final lap. “FIVE MINUTES, FIFTEEN SECONDS,” Mr. Sudare calls out. He’s the first to finish, and sits down in the middle of the track, out of the way, while he waits for Noct to finish. He’s panting slightly, which tells him that he’s not quite as fit as he used to be. He’ll have to start going on his morning runs every day, as opposed to every other day. Maybe lengthen the time too?

Prompto feels the impact as a solid mass flops down next to him. 

“How’d it go?”

“Ugghhhhhh.” 

“Sounds about right.” 

“I wish we had sword fighting or something instead of running. Then I’d totally kick your ass.” 

“Yeah, because giving high schoolers a bunch of pointy objects would end well.” 

“I’m just saying!”

Prompto pats Noct’s shoulder, as Noct has gone from lying down to sitting.  “You would kick all of our asses,” he agrees somewhat jokingly. 

“I would!”

“I know.” 

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not!” Prompto says with a laugh. “Well, maybe I am. But just a little.”

“How dare you,” Noct says with mock outrage, “I am the crown prince of Insomnia, and you-- you dare patronize me?” 

Prompto snorts. “People are--” He is interrupted by the seven minute bell, meaning that they have to go back to the lockers and get changed. He rises and holds out a hand to Noct, who accepts it with a grateful look to Prompto. 

They walk back to the locker rooms in comfortable silence, and Prompto changes quickly once he’s inside one of the bathroom stalls. This time, he doesn’t think about his ports. With Noct, it’s easy to forget.

 

* * *

 

Noct and Prompto meet after school. Cor agreed, but only with the condition that Prompto, “astrals keep your head low.” Noct leads him to the car that picks Noct up every day after school. Prompto recognizes the car as one of the ones that used to pick him up after school, though the driver’s seat is occupied not by a regular chauffeur, but by none other than Ignis. 

Noct opens the door, “Yo, Iggy!” Prompto groans. Ignis does not seem to share Prompto’s frustration, as he simply nods. 

“Hello, Noctis.” 

“I have Prompto with me.”

“So I can see.”

“We need to stop by his house so he can pick up some clothes.”

“If it’s too much trouble I can just walk over and then walk to Noct’s apartment!” Prompto  interjects. 

“His apartment is directly next to the Citadel.”

“Oh, haha, yeah, that might be a little far for me to walk,” Prompto says, flushing. 

“Indeed,” Ignis says drily. “It is no trouble; after all, I would hate to see Noctis’s,” he pauses, “ _sleep over_ delayed.” 

“Aha, yeah.” 

“So, what would your address be?” 

Prompto gives the address and Ignis frowns. “Now why does that sound familiar to me?” 

Prompto mumbles beneath his breath.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” Noct is giving Prompto a strange look too. 

“It’s probably because it’s where the Marshal lives.” 

“You mean Cor?” Noct asks, somewhat incredulously. “ _ That’s  _ who your guardian is?” 

Prompto nods minutely. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, it’s not like I didn’t want to tell you! But Cor said, ‘oh we don’t want the Council to get involved in our business so keep it from the higher-ups,’ and I was like, well that’s weird but okay. And then I felt bad about keeping it from you so.”

Noct looks disappointed, but says, “Prompto, you know you can tell me anything and I won’t tell anyone else, right?” 

“Well, yeah,” Prompto says. This is something he is not, in fact, used to, as for most of his life he has had his words and actions reported to Clarus, who then-- probably?-- reports it to the king. “I, uh, just didn’t want to-- I dunno, man. It’s all sorts of weird with me and Cor.” 

Noct frowns. “How come?” 

“Well, you know-- you  _ know  _ I’m not originally from Lucis, right?” 

Noct nods. “Yeah, Ignis told me after he finished his,” he pauses, “background check on you.” 

“And you know where I was from originally.”

“Niflheim, right? You know I don’t care about that.”

“Yeah, well, uh. The Council may not feel the same way, especially when it’s the Marshal taking in a little Nif kid. They might think, um, I’m a spy, or something?” The pitch of Prompto’s voice raises at the end. “I dunno, it’s all sorts of confusing. Cor just doesn’t want them looking too deep into my background, ‘cause I don’t, uh.”

“You don’t what?” Noct asks. 

Prompto doesn’t know why he’s talking about this. He shouldn’t. All it does is bring Noct closer to the truth of what he is, but a part of him-- he’s sick of hiding, but he still has to. Noct is his friend, but if he found out that Prompto isn’t-- as human as he pretends to be? That he was made by the Niflheim Empire for the sole purpose of killing? That parts of him still follow protocol, even after all this time? 

Ignis notices Prompto’s silence and fills in the blank with, “I believe what Mr. Argentum is referring to is his official papers. Am I correct?”

Prompto nods, then realizes Ignis can’t really see that from the driver’s seat, and says, “Yeah.” 

Prompto can’t tell what Noct’s face looks like because Prompto is resolutely staring out of the window. 

“If you don’t have any official papers, how’d you get into Insomnia?” 

“I was a special case.” 

Noct seems to realize Prompto’s reluctance to speak further on the subject and says, “So, Iggy,” Prompto groans, “You wanna start driving to Prompto’s house?”

Ignis seems to realize that he has not even started the car yet, and rectifies that. “Can you repeat the address for me?”

Prompto does and Ignis drives out of the school parking lot, and into the residential part of the city that Prompto and Cor live in.

“It’s this house at the end of the cul-de-sac on the right,” Prompto says, pointing at the house in question. Ignis pulls in to the driveway, where there are no other cars. “Do you, uh, want to come inside?” he asks Noct. 

“If that’s alright with you,” Noct says, but he has already opened his door and is climbing out of the car. Prompto huffs, but smiles and follows, grabbing his school bag as he exits.

“I’ll be waiting,” Ignis says as Prompto exits. 

“Sounds good, thanks.” 

“And Prompto?”

“Yeah?”

“Iggy… is not a terrible nickname.”  
Prompto can’t say anything to that without stuttering, so he closes the door hastily, very aware his face is beet red. 

“What’d he say to you?” Noct asks. 

“Nothing!” Prompto squeaks. 

Noct shakes his head, but smiles. “Anyway, how do we get in to your house?”

Somewhat taken aback by the strange question, Prompto says, “Through the front door…?”

“No, I meant like-- you know, garage or front door.” 

“Oh, that makes sense. Here I was thinking Mr. Prince is so used to living in an apartment that he didn’t know how to get into a house.”

Noct playfully punches Prompto’s shoulder, who’s grinning as he moves to unlock the front door. The lock clicks, and Prompto holds the door open for Noct. “Age before beauty.”

“Haven’t we done this bit already?” Noct questions as he enters the dark house. 

“Yeah, but that was yesterday. Today’s a new day.” 

Noct laughs as he enters, Prompto following and shutting the door after him. 

“It’s dark.”

“Yeah, well, no one’s home.” 

“Still.”

“Electricity ain’t free.”

“At least open a blind or something!”

“Cor’s paranoid about getting robbed or something.” Truthfully, Prompto still does better in the dark than he does in the sun. It doesn’t hurt or anything, but he’s still more comfortable in the dark. Light is warm, and good, but sometimes he gets overheated. Plus, he can see just fine, so it’s. It’s whatever. Prompto’s not a fan of how his body works, but he can’t change it any more than it already has been. It’s fine.

“My room’s this way,” Prompto says as he turns on the hallway light, squinting at the sudden change. Noct looks to be less affected than Prompto, but he still squints for a moment. 

Prompto leads him to his room, and turns on the light attached to the fan as he enters. “It’s a bit of a mess, so--”

“Prompto,” Noct says, gesturing to the slightly rumpled bed, “If this is what you call a mess, then--” he laughs, “--you and Ignis will get along just fine.” 

Prompto was more referring to the heaps of chocobo paraphernalia stacked on his desk, but if Noct doesn’t notice then he won’t say anything. 

“Wait a second,” Noct says, heading to Prompto’s bed, “you have a stuffed chocobo?”

Prompto sniffs haughtily, “Yes, and his name is Bobo, so treat him with some damn respect.” 

Noct bows to the stuffed chocobo who sits comfortably on Prompto’s pillow. He then turns to Prompto and says, “He looks well-loved.”

“Yeah, got him when I first came to Lucis,” Prompto says as he digs in his drawer for clothes for the night. He pulls out a black long-sleeved shirt and some sweats. He then grabs some clothes for the day and stuffs them all in a tote bag he has in his closet. It’s old, but it does the trick. 

Prompto notices Noct staring at the wall of pictures he has. “What’s up?”

“Nothing, just-- did you take all of these?”

“Um, some are professional but for the most part yeah, why?” 

“These are amazing, Prompto,” Noct says in reverence. “They’re-- I don’t know much about like, composition or anything, but these are great.” 

“Oh, um, thank you?” Prompto knows his face is a beet red. “I-- they’re nothing much, I just like to take pictures.”

Noct’s finger hovers over a selfie of the two of them hanging out at the arcade. It’s Prompto’s favorite picture. 

“Lot’s of pictures of chocobos,” Noct jokes.

“Well, yeah, of course.” 

“Figures,” he says. 

“I’m all done in here, just gotta grab my toothbrush and stuff.” 

“Alright, sweet, I’ll wait for you in the front.”

“What, the bathroom doesn’t interest you?” 

“Nah,” Noct says easily as he follows Prompto out of his room. 

Prompto grins as he enters the bathroom, leaving Noct waiting in the living room. He hums as he grabs his toothbrush, his toothpaste, some hair gel and a brush, and-- 

He pauses at his contact solution. He knows the risks of sleeping with them in, but what about the risks of sleeping with them out? Noct will see.

“You coming?” Prompto hears Noct call. 

“Yeah!” he calls back, swiping the contact solution and throwing it into his bag. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ignis: [stick it to the man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u5JAQGUyIPE)
> 
> (the hc that ignis was had a punk phase is a hc adopted from the lovely [brosura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brosura/pseuds/brosura), check her out!

**Author's Note:**

> aranea "i've only known prompto for a day but if anything happens to him i'll kill everyone in this empire and then myself" highwind


End file.
